LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


RHYTHMICS 


OF 


MANY  MOODS  AND  QUANTITIES. 


WISE  AND   OTHERWISE. 


BY    B.    P.    SHILLABER, 


'I  am  nae  Poet,  in  a  sense, 
But  just  a  Rhymer  like,  by  chance, 
An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

But  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  muse  docs  on  me  glance, 

1  jingle  at  her."    BURNS. 


CHELSEA: 

PUBLISHED    BY    THE    AUTHOR. 
1874. 


S  $-3-3  5~ 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY   B.  P.   SHILLABER, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


«    *er*   ',  BpSlCl*  STEUEprTEPE  ^FOUNDRY, 

19  Spring  Lane. 


PBENTED  BY  BAND,  AVEEY  AND  COMPANY, 
Franklin  Street. 


PREFATO'RY     WORDS. 


WE  are  told  that  when  the  late  Pythagoras  discovered 
his  champion  problem  —  the  forty-seventh  —  that  is  to-day 
most  popular  in  places  where  it  is  least  understood,  he  made 
a  great  to-do  about  it,  shouting  "Eureka  !  "  and  indulging 
in  other  eccentric  demonstrations  ;  so  the  author  of  this 
unpretending  volume,  when  the  idea  of  publishing  came 
upon  him,  received  it  as  if  it  were  a  new  revelation,  and 
said,  "  I'll  print  it !  "  the  difference  betwixt  his  ejaculation 
and  that  of  Pythagoras,  aforesaid,  being  that  his  was  in  plain 
English.  But  there  was  a  financial  difficulty  in  the  way 
which  looked  portentous,  and  then,  recalling  the  aphorism 
of  the  eminent  financier,  who  made  a  fortune  by  borrow 
ing  ninepences,  that  "friendship  unutilized  is  capital 
wasted,"  he  drew  up  the  mild  appeal  to  "His  Friends," 
that  needs  but  to  be  alluded  to  here,  which  achieved  a 
success  far  beyond  his  expectations,  for  which  he  is  duly 
grateful. 

The  tutelar  genius  which  inspired  his  previous  books, 
does  not  prominently  appear  in  this,  though  the  benignant 
influence  of  Mrs.  Partington  maybe  felt  in  its  pages,  warm 
ing,  by  its  tranquil  glow,  w.thout  provoking  the  reader  to  the 
frenzy  of  mirth,  and,  like  Cowper's  cup  of  tea,  may  "  cheer, 
but  not  inebriate."  Of  its  literary  quality,  he  will  say,  that 


M134706 


4  PREFATORY    WORDS. 

he  has  essayed  no  break-neck  Parnassian  flights  in  its  pro 
duction  :  first,  because  he  could  not,  which  seems  to  be  rea 
son  enough  ;  and  second,  because  he  felt  content  to  skirt 
the  mountain,  like  a  brook,  rather  than  climb  over  it,  re 
flecting  as  much  of  heaven's  light  as  there  was  surface  to 
be  shone  upon,  and  cheering  as  far  as  possible  by  his 
song,  without  any  great  pretence  to  artistic  excellence. 

The  title,  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES,  is  tributary  to 
scenes  about  which  cluster  mqst  delightful  recollections  to 
the  author,  in  recalling  which  he  believes  he  will  find  many 
sympathizers  among  those  who  shared  in  their  participa 
tion.  A  number  of  pieces  not  intended  for  print,  make  a 
first  claim  for  public  attention,  and  as  what  is  one  man's 
interest  is  interesting  to  all,  through  the  fellow-feeling  which 
makes  the  world  akin,  so  a  general  interest  may  attach  to 
what  was  merely  occasional  or  personal. 

The  portrait  was  not  introduced  through  any  prompt 
ing  of  vanity  that  had  survived  youth  to  make  age  ridicu 
lous,  but  at  the  suggestion  of  the  best  advisers  ;  and, 
thanks  to  Mr.  Adams,  of  Chelsea,  a  thorough  artist  in  pho 
tography,  and  the  heliography  of  Messrs.  James  R.  Osgood 
&  Co.,  the  pictured  lineaments  form  a  feature  of  the  book  ; 
for  which,  doubtless,  the  reader  will  be  duly  grateful.  It  is 
not  as  classical  as  a  Greek  study,  but  it  presents  as  many 
wrinkles,  that  are  not  frozen  frowns,  as  the  most  preten 
tious  of  the  antiques* 

No  pains  have  been  spared  to  produce  a  book  of  the  best 
mechanical  excellence,  for  which  see  respective  imprints  ; 
and  the  author  places  it  in  the  reader's  hands,  confident 
that  it  will  receive  all  the  consideration  its  merits  de 
serve— and  its  demerits  likewise. 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 

THE  MOUND-BUILDERS 

HOME  AGAIN 

TWENTY  YEARS  LATER.    .    •    . 

TWENTY-ONE. 

JUBILEE  RHYMES.       .        .        .        . 
MODERN  CHIVALRY.      .        .        . 

THE  PRESS 

THE  PREUX  CHEVALIER. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

PRESS  AND  PRESS-PEOPLE.    . 

AN  OLD  TEA-PARTY 

A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO.     . 

AQUEOUS  INSPIRATION 

A  RHYME  OF  FIVE-AND-TWENTY  YEARS. 
CONTRASTS  AND  SIMILITUDES. 
AFTER-DINNER  EFFORT. 


26 
35 

43 
52 
58 
66 
76 
82 
86 
90 

94 
104 
109 

H5 
123 


CONTENTS. 


WAR   LYRICS. 

MASSACHUSETTS. 133 

THE  SIXTH  AT  BALTIMORE 135 

THE  WAY  WE  WENT  TO  BEAUFORT.       .        .        .137 
GRIERSON'S  RAID.         ......         140 

"  POOR  BOY  !  " 142 

WAR'S  CHANGES 144 

THE  OLD  WAR-SHIP.  .        .        .        .        .146 


FRIENDLY   PERSONALITIES. 

To  JAMES  T.  FIELDS 15 l 

THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING 154 

CONGRATULATORY 15? 

A  RESPONSE 159 

To  A  POET 162 

TRIBUTARY  VERSES 165 

A  PICTURE .        .        .  168 

To  WARRINGTON 171 

DR.  HAYES i?4 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

WHAT  MAN  DON'T  KNOW i?7 

MY  EARLY  LOVE.          ...  180 

DEBILITY  OF  THE  HEART.        .                        .        .  183 

BUT  :   A  TRUTH  IN  HINDOSTAN.         ...  185 


CONTENTS.  9 

IL  REUMATICO  TO  HIS  PIPE.    .        .        .        •        .187 

TRUST.    .        .        •        •        •        •        •        •        •  '9° 

THANKSGIVING  TIME J92 

SNOWED  IN *97 

AFFECTION'S  TRIBUTE .200 

CHRISTMAS 

THE  OLD  SEXTON 2OS 

STRAWBERRIES 2o8 

THE  OLD  BROMFIELD  HOUSE 213 

DREAM  ARROWS. 2I5 

THE  CHURCH  BELL. 2I7 

A  PUSH  FOR  FREEDOM 22o 

MILES  O'REILLY 224 

THE  LOVE  OF  THE  OLD 

HERE  AND  YONDER 229 

How  WEARING  IT  is !          .        .        •        •        •  23J 

THE  REASON  WHY 233 

THE  QUILTING 235 

THE  PERFIDIOUS  MILLER 238 

THE  OLD-TIME  APPLE-BEE 244 

THE  NEW  YEAR 247 

A  WORK-DAY  LYRIC. 25° 

DREAMING  AND  WAKING 2S2 

HOPE 255 

A  VAGARY 257 

CHRISTMAS  TOKEN 259 

SABBATH-DAY  REFLECTIONS 26: 

THE  PEBBLE  ON  THE  SHORE 2^3 


10  CONTEXTS. 

MY  CRUTCH 

Music  OF  THE  FLAIL 268 

THE  ISLAND  DEFENDERS 27° 

CHILDISH  VESPERS 274 

THE  SEWING-CIRCLE 2?6 

TORN  DOWN 

THE  SKATERS 2Sl 

THE  CORNER  POLICEMAN 283 

THE  OLD  STAGE-COACH 285 

UNCONSIDERED   TRIFLES.          ...  287 


OCCASIONAL   PIECES. 


LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE   MOUND-BUILDERS.* 

IN  the  "  far  west  "  —  once  reckoned  very  far  — 
Our  neighbor  now,  by  the  fleet  railroad  car  — 
Are  certain  hillocks,  rounded  in  their  shape, 
That  long  have  set  the  curious  world  agape, 
Provoking  questionings  —  conundrums  rare  — 
Regarding  how  they  could  have  happened  there  ; 
Who  could  have  built  them  —  what  they  did  it  for  — 
Whether  of  peace  they  grew,  or  if  of  war ; 
Whether  they  held  the  bones  of  braves  in  trust, 
Or  were  some  ancient  Boffin's  piles  of  dust. 
"  What  mean  they  ?  "  Science  cried,  with  eager  glow, 
And  Echo  answered,  "  Really,  I  donrt  know." 
Savants  have  tried  to  fathom  them  in  vain, 
Receiving  little  for  their  care  and  pain  : 
A  bone,  perhaps,  an  antique  pipe  of  clay, 
A  hatchet  made  of  flint,  —  yet  happy  they, 
For  on  the  bracket  of  a  single  tooth 

*  Read  before  Literary  Societies  of  Dartmouth  College,  July,  1871. 

13 


.'/>/•  .PLEASANT  PLA  CES. 


They'd  hang  immortal  theories,  forsooth, 
Of  those  who  might  have  lived  heyond  the  flood, 
And  held  their  tenure  in  the  primal  mud, 
Therein  abiding  in  that  distant  while, 

—  Dying  as  soon  as  they  had  "  made  their  pile,"  - 
Leaving  behind  them  no  authentic  trace 

If  ape  or  polliwog  began  the  race. 
This  hint  suggests  the  sympathetic  fact 
That  we  with  like  constructive  purpose  act, 
Heaping  up  mounds  of  character  for  those 
Who,  after  us,  our  status  would  disclose, 
And  scratch  beneath  the  surface,  like  a  hen, 
To  find  out  what  we  were  or  might  have  been. 
We  toil  and  toil  with  pertinacious  might 
To  bring  our  structures  to  the  proper  height  : 
Some  scarce  perceived  above  the  sod  to  lift, 
Some  soaring  high  with  industry  and  thrift, 
Some  with  benevolence  and  virtue  wrought, 
Some  beautiful  with  wisdom  and  with  thought  ; 
While  others  —  sad  reflection  !  —  highest  reared, 
Will  have  the  meanest  showing,  it  is  feared, 

—  A  sordid,  selfish,  fraudulent  offence,  — 
Procuring  fame,  like  goods,  by  false  pretence. 

I've  often  wondered  if,  from  some  high  sphere, 
Angels  take  cognizance  of  doings  here  ; 
And  if  they  do,  what  must  their  notions  be 
Of  what  they  guess,  at  times,  and  what  they  see, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  rim  of  some  fair  star, 
They  spend  their  time  divining  what  we  are, 
And  what  we  are  doing  on  the  ball  below 


THE  MOUND-BUILDERS. 

In  our  excited,  strange,  and  restless  show, 
Hither  and  thither  rushing,  round  and  round, 
Each  striving,  driving,  piling  up  his  mound. 
Happy  our  fame  if  from  its  heart  exhumed 
One  fossil  flower  is  found  that  erewhile  bloomed, 
One  seed  of  Truth  that  in  the  air  may  grow, 
And  vital  energy  and  fruitage  show ; 
Or  from  its  soil  one  tree  be  found  to  spring, 
That  gratefully  abroad  its  shade  may  fling, 
Beneath  whose  shelter  humble  souls  may  rest 
In  sweet  contentedness  and  pleasure  blest. 

We  glance  about,  as  on  our  spades  we  lean, 
And  mark  the  toil  of  others  in  the  scene, 
Each  piling  on,  with  busy  hand  and  brain, 
Some  height  of  honor  or  of  place  to  gain. 
A  welcome  privilege,  the  nonce,  is  ours 
—  Granted  in  boon  by  overruling  powers  — 
To  leave  our  own  small  mounds  of  love  or  cares, 
And  look  upon,  and  be  the  judge  of,  theirs  ! 
Just  as  in  neighborhoods  where  every  one 
Watches  for  others'  faults  to  pounce  upon, 
And,  in  the  scrutinizing  zeal  that's  shown, 
Forgets,  the  moment,  foibles  of  his  own. 

Here  Greed's  contestants  every  effort  make 
All  things  that  come  within  their  reach  to  take, 
Toiling,  with  aching  head  and  hardening  heart, 
In  known  and  unknown  courses  of  the  mart ; 
Selling  their  comfort  and  their  spirit's  peace 
To  swell  the  measure  of  a  rich  increase  ; 


1 6  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

With  not  a  thought  save  on  accruing  dimes, 

The  chink  of  Mammon  drowning  heavenly  chimes ; 

With  sacrifice  of  conscience,  early  seared, 

And  justice  seen  through  eyes  corrupt  and  bleared. 

The  late  Tom  Walker,  everybody  sees, 

Sold  not  himself  more  patently  than  these, 

Although  the  fiend  may  not  the  mortgage  close, 

As  terms  are  easier  in  these  days  than  those  ! 

We  pick  their  mounds  to  pieces  when  they  die, 

To  see  what  underneath  the  crust  may  lie, 

—  What  trace  of  character  may  there  remain,  — 

Alas  !  we  have  the  western  mounds  again  : 

Lots  of  the  dirt,  but  here  and  there  a  speck 

Of  native  worth,  surviving  honor's  wreck, 

A  few  worn  bones  of  principle  and  worth, 

The  rest  all  selfishness  and  yellow  earth. 

The  Politician  with  his  wary  eye 
Watches  the  changes  of  the  party  sky, 
And  plans  his  tactics  to  preserve  his  place 
E'en  though  his  country  tremble  with  disgrace. 
Like  the  old  vicar  of  the  church  of  Bray 
He  trims  his  sails  to  winds  from  any  way, 
Ready  to  change  as  parties  make  or  break, 
True  to  himself  whatever  course  they  take, 
Pulling  all  strings  that  bear  upon  the  dime, 
z\nd  crawls  unshrinking  through  the  dirt  and 
Thinks  he's  a  statesman,  bound  in  fame  to  shine, 
But  this  no  more  than  buttermilk  is  wine  — 
A  wretched  shoddy  for  the  statesman's  gown 
Stuffed  out  to  win  the  homage  of  the  town. 


THE  MOUND-BUILDERS.  17 

('Tis  needless,  maybe,  to  proclaim  the  fact, 
But  he  with  our  pure  party  doesn't  act.) 
He  rears  a  mound  symmetrical  and  high, 
A  goodly  outside  to  the  careless  eye ; 
One  honest  kick  when  he  has  fled  away, 
And  what  a  mass  offensive  greets  the  day !  — 
Falsehood  and  cunning,  perfidy  and  greed, 
With  not  a  thing  that  might  for  mercy  plead. 

The  Quack — of  whate'er  name  — his  craft  applies, 

And  all  the  cavil  of  the  worLi  defies ; 

Isms  or  medicine  pours  without  a  stint 

Down  human  throats  through  avenues  of  print, 

And  gains  his  point  of  influence  or  fame, 

His  gilded  trappings  covering  up  his  shame  ! 

We  plodders  by  the  way  must  seek  retreat 

When  his  fast  horses  prance  adown  the  street. 

With  liveried  servants,  and  such  thin  veneer 

As  makes  pretence  like  verity  appear. 

Or  if  the  quack  affects  no  glittering  pride, 

Choosing  in  less  pretentious  garb  to  stride, 

Alike  veneer  conceals  the  fraud  below, 

And  if  'tis  false  the  world  don't  care  to  know, 

Taking  in  blindly  that  which  credence  fills, 

And  bolting  false  philosophy  or  pills  ! 

The  quack's  mound  rises,  shadowing  the  land, 

Of  fabric  fair  and  architecture  grand, 

Covered  by  gilt,  in  ostentatious  guise, 

A  specious  bid  for  favor  in  our  eyes. 

What  are  its  contents  when,  in  after  day, 

The  shell  remorselessly  is  torn  away?  — 


iS  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Pills,  stock,  and  heresies,  humbug  and  pretence, 
Without  a.  show  of  honesty  or  sense  ! 

The  one  who  yields  himself  to  Fashion's  art, 

And  to  his  tailor  renders  up  his  heart, 

Plies  his  faint  brains,  in  emulous  emprise, 

By  stunning  trim  his  manhood  to  disguise  ; 

Succeeding  in  his  effort,  day  by  day, 

And  butterflying  all  his  life  away. 

Or  Pleasure's  votary,  whose  constant  care 

Is  in  some  "high  old  time"  to  take  a  share, 

And  in  the  crazed  abandon  of  the  strife 

Forgets  the  grand  realities  of  life  ; 

Steeps  his  weak  soul  in  s'ensual  delight, 

And  yields  himself  a  slave  to  appetite. 

(O,  what  a  wretched  fallacy  is  this, 

That  leads  him  wildered  by  this  road  to  bliss  ; 

To  find,  at  last,  at  no  far  distant  day, 

That  "  good  times,"  in  the  aggregate,  don't  pay  !) 

The  puzzled  seeker  might  their  mounds  invade 

And  find  few  obstacles  resist  the  spade  — 

A  tailor's  bill,  unpaid,  a  fancy  tie, 

A  willow  flask  —  exhaling  ancient  rye  ! 

The  Honest  Man  (self-styled),  within  the  law, 

Enacts  his  part  without  a  single  flaw. 

He  notes  distinctly  the  dividing  line 

Where  the  illegal  and  the  legal  join, 

And  plants  his  toes  with  microscopic  care, 

Fearing  to  trespass  by  a  single  hair ; 

Then  mortgages  forecloses  with  a  smile, 


THE   MOUND-BUILDERS.  19 

And  big  per  cents  he  heaps  upon  his  pile, 
Doing  whate'er  the  law  will  let  him  do, 
—  Devouring  widows  and  their  houses  too,  — 
Until  he  dies,  his  mound  of  shapely  grace 
Revealing  not  a  blemish  we  may  trace. 
The  pick  betrays  him,  and,  alone,  descried, 
Is  what  he  reached  and  took  from  t'other  side. 

And  all  are  balanced  by  some  humble  soul, 
Whose  life  is  spent  'neath  virtue's  grand  control, 
Who,  from  the  love  and  wish  of  doing  good, 
Expands  in  one  sublime  beatitude  ; 
Seeking  no  glory,  but,  in  noiseless  way, 
Shedding  abroad  rare  blessing  day  by  day,  — 
As  some  sweet  rill  may  make  a  desert  bloom, 
And  glad  its  life  with  verdure  and  perfume, 
The  world  unheeding  that  which  so  doth  bless, 
By  the  still  mission  of  unselfishness, 
Until  it  shrinks  beneath  the  fervent  sun, 
And  then  is  felt  the  service  it  has  done. 
So  are  the  good  remembered  when  they're  past, 
And  all  their  worth  is  valued  at  the  last. 

Thus  builders  pile  their  mounds  of  mind  or  pelf, 
And  each  in  character  transmits  himself; 
None  moundless,  though  diversity  we  trace, 
And  difference  in  altitude  or  grace  ; 
Piled  high  with  care,  cupidity  or  pride, 
With  worldly  hopes  and  aims  identified, 
Or  built  of  Truths  that  high  their  summits  raise, 
Their  beauty  gladdening  the  seeker's  gaze. 


20  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

That  mound  is  highest  as  its  base  is  spread, 
When  towers  among  the  clouds  its  lofty  head. 
This  fact  recalls  the  antiquated  myth 
Of  the  old  devotee,  of  zealous  pith, 
Who,  with  a  power  by  holy  frenzy  given, 
Resolved  to  build  a  mound  from  earth  to  heaven. 
No  joint-stock  matter  this,  —  though  not  more  wild 
Than  many  by  which  people  are  beguiled  ; 
Man-traps,  approved  and  chartered  by  the  State, 
That,  like  old  Samson's  foemen  lie  in  wait, 
All  lovely  in  the  specious  dress  of  ink, 
Until  the  bubble  bursts  and  down  they  sink  ; 
The  ancient  zealot  was  a  grasping  elf, 
And  chose  to  corner  all  the  stock  himself. 

And  first  he  drew  a  circle  on  the  ground 
To  form  the  area  of  his  mighty  mound. 
His  stakes  being  driven  he  took  off  his  coat, 
To  his  grand  work  his  muscle  to  devote, 
Bending  his  back  with  vigor  to  the  task, 
Without  a  question  of  success  to  ask. 
There's  nought  like  pious  muscle  to  effect 
What  shrewd  religious  thinking  may  project. 
Up  rose  the  heap  beneath  his  sturdy  might, 
Towering  and  towering  to  exalted  height, 
And  still  he  toiled,  with  a  persistent  will, 
His  self-appointed  mission  to  fulfil, — 
Smiling  to  see  it  rise  in  upper  air, 
The  banding  of  his  efibrt  and  his  prayer. 
At  length  the  earth  refused  atop  to  stay  — 
The  base  too  narrow  for  his  grand  essay. 


THE  MOUND-BUILDERS.  21 

Fast  as  he  piled,  the  sand  in  drifts  did  meet, 

In  crawling  eddies,  round  his  stinted  feet, 

Suggesting  plainly  he  should  "  change  his  base  " 

Ere  he  could  hope  to  reach  the  upper  space. 

It  is  not  told  how  he  the  land  procured 

By  which  his  future  triumph  was  assured, 

But,  gaining  it,  he  backward  made  a  move, 

His  heart  and  eyes  fixed  hopefully  above. 

He  would  not  let  the  edge  of  his  intent 

Be  turned  by  any  temporal  accident, 

And  so  he  labored,  moving  backward  still, 

As  loftier  rose  his  life-embodied  hill, 

And,  when  its  summit  reached  the  upper  deep, 

The  base  comprised  the  whole  world  in  its  sweep  ! 

And  then  a  glory  born  of  joy  complete 

Filled  all  his  heart  with  satisfaction  sweet ; 

He'd  made  his  pile  by  strength  devotion  lent, 

Then  died  contented,  though  not  worth  a  cent. 

He  might  have  climbed  his  hill  to  endless  day, 

But  chose  to  go  the  customary  way. 

From  all  of  which  I'd  have  this  manifest  — 

That  every  one  should  do  his  u  level  best," 

And  make  a  mound  symmetrical  and  high, 

His  worth  and  action  to  exemplify. 

Not  bidding  for  a  loud  posthumous  fame, 

But  emblemizing  deeds  much  more  than  name. 

It  might  be  pleasant,  with  our  love  of  praise, 

To  have  admiring  crowds  their  plaudits  raise  ; 

But  better  far  than  this,  as  one  can  deem, 

Is  the  grand  fact  of  being  what  we  seem. 


22     LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

We  may  make  money,  such  of  us  as  can, 

And  ne'er  forget  a  moment  we  are  Man  ; 

Such  generous,  noble  souls  as  you  and  I 

Would  to  rare  uses  make  the  money  fly. 

Fortune,  howe'er,  has  ever  held  in  trust 

My  portion  of  the  soul-corrupting  dust, 

Fearing,  'twould  seem,  my  lavishness  might  tend 

Too  much  in  acts  benevolent  to  spend. 

Grand  are  those  souls,  on  whom  is  poured  the  pelf, 

Who  lose  no  portion  of  their  better  self! 

E'en  Impecunius  such  bestowal  sees, 

And  makes  no  growl  at  Fortune's  rough  decrees, 

Investing,  with  unstinted  bounty,  such, 

With  dimes  his  itching  fingers  may  not  touch. 

Be  politicians,  —  patriots  good  and  true,  — 

Your  country  calls  especially  to  you  ; 

But  not  as  demagogues  to  trade  and  prate, 

And  let  yourself  and  yours  precede  the  state, 

Abusing  privilege  your  station  lends, 

And  looking  out  for  parasites  and  friends. 

Be  devotees  as  pious  as  you  may, 

But  pray  put  bigotry  at  once  away ; 

Let  your  devotion,  pure,  to  heaven  ascend, 

And  love  to  all  your  earthly  doings  lend. 

Be  fashionable,  if  your  tastes  incline, 

Though  better  not  in  borrowed  plumage  shine. 

Remember  foppishness  shows  no  advance, 

And  good  taste  never  means  extravagance  ; 

Money  may  find  a  more  exalted  use 

Than  hatching  goslings  from  a  tailor's  goose. 

I'd  have  true  Manhood  evermore  pervade 


THE  MOUND-BUILDERS.  23 

Each  art,  profession,  enterprise,  or  trade, 
And  true  nobility  of  soul  enthroned, 
Now  compromised  or  utterly  disowned. 
Whether  the  mound  is  built  by  hand  or  mind 
Integrity  should  be  in  all  combined. 

Ye  JUDGES,  sitting  there,  in  embryo, 
Preserve  your  ermine  in  unsullied  snow  ; 
Look  well  to  time  before  the  robe  you  don, 
Nor  soil  your  shoulders  ere  you  put  it  on. 
The  highest  tribute  held  by  fame  in  trust 
Is  that,  when  justly  given,  —  he  was  just. 

Ye  DOCTORS,  who  prospective  pulses  feel, 
Be  faithful  in  the  paths  light  may  reveal ; 
Don't  let  your  consciences  for  gain  grow  tough, 
And  ne'er  be  niggard  with  your  doctor's  stuff; 
If  called  up  nights  make  no  ill-natured  talk, 
But  charge  it  blandly  with  a  double  chalk. 

Ye  LAWYERS,  —  ready  every  side  to  plead  ; 
To  back  and  fill,  advance  and  then  recede,  — 
If  right  or  wrong  a  client's  cause  to  bear, 
And  for  its  justice  neither  know  nor  care, 
The  merits  of  a  case  at  once  to  see, 
Commended  by  a  smart  retaining  fee, — 
For  you  I  have  but  just  one  little  word  : 
E'er  be  as  honest  —  as  you  can  afford. 

Ye  TEACHERS,  now  prepared  the  world  to  show 
A  part  of  what  you  do  and  think  you  know, 


24  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Don't  cram  your  pupils  with  the  dough  of  text 
Till  memory  and  patience  are  perplexed  ; 
Teach  them,  beyond  the  books  upon  your  shelves, 
And  lead  their  minds  to  think  things  out  themselves. 

Ye  MERCHANTS,  —  missionary  aids  to  thought,  — 

Whose  white  sails  light  from  every  clime  has  caught, 

Think  of  the  proud  position  Commerce  boasts, 

Extending  Truth  to  earth's  far-distant  coasts,  — 

Think  of  the  powers  that  to  your  sphere  belong 

To  aid  the  right  and  subjugate  the  wrong,  — 

And  never  let  cupidity  come  in 

To  swerve  its  bent  to  compromise  with  sin  ; 

May  honesty  e'er  justify  your  sales, 

With  unshrunk  yardsticks  and  ungrudging  scales  ! 

Ye  PREACHERS,  destined  for  the  sacred  place, 
Imbibe  humility  and  loving  grace, 
And  strive,  the  while  God's  holy  word  you  preach, 
To  learn  and  listen,  while  you  talk  and  teach. 
Present  the  "  cloth  "  as  worthy  of  respect, 
And  not  a  trade-mark,  merely,  for  a  sect. 
And  should  a  higher  call,  like  Samuel's,  come, 
Don't  shrink  from  it,  and  say  you're  not  at  home ; 
We  must,  you  know,  all  our  temptations  face, 
And  circumstance  be  left  to  rule  each  case. 

Ye  POETS,  dwelling  in  the  airs  sublime 
That  blow  about  our  ears  in  gusts  of  rhyme, 
Forever  sing  for  Truth  and  Love  divine 
In  strains  as  good,  if  possible,  as  mine. 


THE  MOUND-BUILDERS.  25 

I  close  my  theme —  a  mountain  in  my  view  — 

To  be  assumed,  and  added  to,  by  you. 

The  mounds  are  waiting,  ready  to  be  shown, 

As  the  fair  image  bides  within  the  stone. 

Begin  to  build,  —  your  just  position  take,  — 

Here  forge  the  tools  your  waiting  mounds  to  make  ; 

Roll  up  your  sleeves  and  enter  on  your  work  — 

No  one  to  lag,  no  one  his  task  to  shirk  ; 

Like  the  old  zealot  widen  out  your  base, 

And,  like  him,  look  to  heaven  with  hopeful  face  ; 

Stick  to  your  mound  persistently  and  true, 

And  dread  no  failure  in  the  great  review, 

When  angels,  searching  for  its  inner  plan, 

Shall  say,  approvingly,  HERE  WAS  A  MAN  ! 


26  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


HOME  AGAIN* 

A  PHALANX  strong  and  true  we  come 
To  meet  amid  the  scenes  of  home  — 
Again  to  mingle  heart  and  heart, 
As  in  life's  early  morning-start, 
When,  with  stout  nerve  and  earnest  soul, 
We  parted  for  the  distant  goal. 
And  we  have  wandered  long  and  for, 
Led  onward  by  Hope's  guiding  star  ; 
Through  ways  diversely  wide  we've  passed, 
With  varied  fortunes  on  us  cast ; 
Felt  much  of  good  and  much  of  ill 
From  Fate's  o'erbending  skies  distil ; 
But,  though  afar,  we've  ne'er  forgot 
Each  olden  well-beloved  spot, 
And  every  hill  and  rock  and  stream 
Has  been  recalled  in  many  a  dream, 
And  life's  pursuits,  of  high  or  low, 
Have  paled  no  beam  of  filial  glow, 
That  with  renewing  ray  has  burned 
As  oft  the  heart  has  homeward  turned. 

*  Delivered  on  the  occasioa  of  the  Return  of  the  Sons  of  Portsmouth  to 
their  old  Home,  July  4,  1853. 


HOME  AGAIN.  2? 

Fancy  unchecked  has  roamed  at  will ; 
We've  stood  again  on  Breakfast  Hill, 
And  felt  the  breezes  round  us  blow, 
As  on  May  mornings  long  ago, 
When,  left  our  beds  for  phantom  flowers 
In  early  dawn's  ungenial  hours, 
In  aching  hands  and  glowing  noses 
Has  merged  our  hope  of  vernal  roses  ! 
Again  we've  from  Langdon's  Rock, 
In  dreamy  shoes,  to  Puddle  Dock, 
And  plunged  beneath  the  cooling  waves 
That  ceaseless  lave  the  Point  of  Graves, 
Where,  in  eternal  slumbers  deep, 
The  "  fathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep." 

We've  walked  once  more  in  memory  o'er 

That  sacred  precinct  Christian  Shore, 

And  heard  the  hum  of  Walker's  Mill, 

And  stood  enrapt  on  Dennett's  Hill, 

Where  the  big  fish  perpetual  glides, 

On  steady  fin,  through  airy  tides, 

And  seen  that  pond  beneath  us  rest, 

Upon  whose  placid,  stormless  breast 

—  In  days  full  well  remembered  yet  — 

Our  little  sails  in  pride  we  set, 

Nor  deemed  that,  in  the  world's  wide  round, 

A  fairer  sea  could  e'er  be  found, 

Or  mightier  gales  than  those  which  bore 

Our  shallow  ships  from  shore  to  shore ! 

Beyond  its  clear  and  glassy  tide 

Rock  Pasture  rests  in  pristine  pride. 


28  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

In  memory  only  is  it  seen, 

—  In  memory  may  it  still  be  green, 

As  when,  in  days  of  ancient  peace, 

Old  Mr.  Mifflin  reared  his  geese, 

And  S  he  rbur  ne's  Wharf,  a  spot  revered, 

In  willowy  garniture  appeared, 

And  Cellar  old  and  Great  Rock  gray 

Saw  rudimental  men  at  play,  — 

For  Innovation's  iron  hand 

Has  marred  the  features  of  the  land, 

And  the  Rock  Pasture  we  are  shown 

Is  not  the  one  we  erst  have  known  ! 

Though  other  streams  more  wide  may  be, 

Of  import  more  and  majesty, 

Yet  none  from  one  can  e'er  bespeak 

A  warmer  love  than  Walker's  Creek. 

And  thou,  remembered  Sagamore! 
Some  fairy  pencil  traced  thy  shore, 
With  most  artistic  beauties  rife 
Ere  sturdy  nature  gave  it  life  ; 
The  woods  that  skirt  thy  verdant  side 
Bow  over  thee  in  love  and  pride, 
And  lay  their  shadows  there  to  rest 
Upon  the  pillow  of  thy  breast ; 
No  sounds  of  harsh  discordance  press 
To  mar  thy  blessed  peacefulness  ; 
The  old  pines  murmur  whisperingly 
As  if  in  earnest  praise  of  thee  ; 
And  troops  of  brilliant  loving  birds 
Sing  their  delight  in  joyous  words, 


HOME  AGAIN.  29 

Responsive  to  thine  own  sweet  speech 
That  breaks  in  music  on  thy  beach. 
Among  thy  haunts  again  we've  played, 
Again  along  thy  shore  we've  strayed, 
And  bowed  like  pilgrims  at  a  shrine 
Before  thy  beauties  so  divine  ! 
Again  our  foreheads  warm  and  glowing 
Have  felt  thy  crystal  coolness  flowing, 
And  love  has  strengthened  in  the  beam 
Reflected  from  thy  shore  and  stream. 

And  oft-remembered  Frenchman's  Lane 

Comes  up  before  the  mind  again, 

With  brooding  shadows  dark  and  dread, 

From  elms  enlacing  overhead  ; 

And  on  a  broad  flat  stone  we  read 

The  trace  of  that  perfidious  deed, 

Where  on  this  spot,  long,  long  ago, 

The  Frenchman  met  his  mortal  woe. 

Dread  spot !  where  boys  scarce  dared  to  roam 

Beyond  the  evening's  early  gloam, 

For  fear  lest  they  might  haply  meet 

The  Frenchman  in  his  winding-sheet. 

t> 

O,  glorious  myth  !  that  urchins  scares, 
And  saves  to  Ham  his  sugar-pears  ! 

And  sense  and  soul  must  all  be  dead 
When  we  forget  the  Fountain  Head, 
That  shrine  to  which  our  footsteps  strayed, 
For  rest  and  solace  in  its  shade, 
When  parched  beneath  the  summer  heat 


30  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

We've  coveted  its  treasures  sweet, 
And  dipped  our  pails  within  the  pool 
Where  bubbled  up  the  waters  cool, 
In  ceaseless,  never-tiring  flow, 
And  icy  stillness  from  below, 
The  while  the  fife-bird  poured  his  song 
Upon  the  slumbering  air  along, 
Till,  taking  captive  Boyhood's  ear, 
It  bowed  in  still  delight  to  hear  ! 
Full  many  a»name  on  that  old  shrine 
Was  written  in  the  clays  lang  syne  — 
Few  scarcely  dreaming  deeper  fame 
Than  that  which  registered  their  name  ! 

And  memories,  like  railway  trains, 
Come  freighted,  full,  of  Portsmouth  Plains- 
That  greater  field,  in  Boyhood's  view, 
Than  New  Orleans  or  Waterloo  ! 
With  mighty  deeds  of  arms  'tis  rife, 
And  rattling  drum  and  squeaking  fife, 
And  Bern" s  bunns,  and  weary  legs, 
And  apple-juice,  and  hard-boiled  eggs! 
Again  hear  how  the  music  rings, 
Where  Myers  thumbs  the  catgut  strings, 
Where,  answering  to  the  sounding  fiddle, 
'Tis  "  down  outside  and  up  the  middle,'' 
And  waves  of  flaming  calico 

O 

In  mighty  surges  come  and  go ! 
Again  we  see  the  grand  display 
Of  many  a  famed  "  great  training  day," 
When  soldiers  brave,  in  "  fixings  "  fair, 


HOME  AGAIN.  3L 

And  some  by  far  the  worse  for  wear  — 

Meet  there  in  warlike  trim  to  wait, 

And  show  themselves  and  serve  the  state,  — 

The  glory  and  the  crowning  pride 

Of  boys  and  men  who  stand  outside  ! 

Spring  Market!  —  how  affection  clings 
To  thee,  best  of  remembered  things ! 
'Delightful  'twas  in  days  of  old, 
Thy  mighty  commerce  to  behold,  — 
Where,  spread  around  thy  circuit  wide, 
Was  seen  the  fertile  country's  pride, 
That  Naiads  ere  the  morning's  gleam 
Had  ferried  down  the  rapid  stream. 
And  vivid  thoughts  arise  of  her, 
The  awful  anci ent  M  a  r  r  i  n  e  r , 
Before  whose  stern  and  chilling  frown 
All  predatory  schemes  went  down  ; 
With  whom  the  fruit-invested  pence 
Was  sole  atonement  for  offence. 
There,  trickling  out  from  'neath  the  hill, 
Runs  merrily  that  ceaseless  rill, 
That  never  from  its  fulness  shrank 
Though  myriads  from  its  bounty  drank, 
And  wastes  itself  in  icy  flow 
Upon  the  "  flagrant"  beach  below. 
How  often  has  that  iron  bowl 
Been  blissful  to  his  thirsty  soul, 
Who,  bending  double  for  the  prize, 
Has  crushed  his  beaver  o'er  his  eyes, 
But  compensated  for  his  pain 


32  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

By  tasting  of  its  sweets  again. 

Gray,  honored,  worn  Venetian  pile, 

Which  modern  Goths  have  dared  despoil ! 

Though  statelier  fabrics  rear  their  forms 

Upon  thy  site,  my  spirit  warms 

As  it  thy  glories  doth  restore, 

The  pride  of  swift  Piscataqua's  shore. 

Piscataqua  !  that  mighty  tide, 

With  all  our  youthful  thoughts  allied, 

Yet  rolls  its  eddying  waves  along, 

Untiring,  ceaseless,  free,  and  strong, 

As  when  with  pole  and  hook  and  string 

We  fished  for  pollock  by  the  "  Spring." 

And  redolent  with  sulphury  smell, 

And  resonant  with  gun  and  bell, 

And  luminous  with  fiery  light 

—  The  crown  of  Independence  night  — 

The  town  Parade,  with  earnest  stiife, 

Has  lost  no  note  of  busy  life : 

The  Court  House  —  venerable  pile  — 

In  gentle  dotage  seems  to  smile  ; 

The  old  Town  P  u  m  p ,  with  outstretched  hand, 

Like  rigid  sentinel  doth  stand  ; 

Jefferson  Hall  sends  back  again 

That  olden  patriotic  strain, 

That  rose  when  high  and  low  degree 

Brought  votive  gifts  to  Liberty, 

And,  rallying,  with  earnest  zeal, 

Each  twelvemonth  saved  the  commonweal ; 

And  old  Paved  Street,  with  riches  dight, 

Comes  back  upon  the  dreaming  sight, 


HOME  AGAIN.  33 

With  every  gorgeous  hue  displayed, 

As  when,  upon  the  sea  of  trade, 

To  welcome  all  auspicious  gales, 

The  hopeful  merchant  set  his  sales. 

There,  like  the  guardian  of  the  scene, 

The  North  Church  stands  with  solemn  mien, 

And  reverent  feelings  cluster  round 

To  sanctify  the  precious  ground. 

Its  spire  arises  white  and  high, 

Attracting  upward  still  the  eye, 

A  petrified  perpetual  saint  — 

A  sermon  preached  in  wood  and  paint ! 

That  bell  —  the  music  of  whose  tone 

What  Portsmouth  ear  can  e'er  disown?  — 

Yet  swings  within  its  ancient  tower, 

And  calls  to  praise,  and  calls  the  hour, 

As  erst  in  garrulous  pride  it  swung, 

With  open  mouth  and  prating  tongue, 

Like  many  a  mortal  we  have  known 

Whose  virtue  is  in  sound  alone. 

An  endless  task  it  is  to  trace 

Each  olden,  well-remembered  place, 

Or  give  our  heart  emotions  tone  — 

The  heart  must  treasure  them  alone. 

There  are  they  evermore  portrayed, 

The  pictures  that  in  youth  were  made  : 

The  church,  the  school,  the  wood,  the  stream, 

All,  all  return  in  memory's  dream, 

And  friends  and  old  delights  we  knew 

Still  live  in  retrospection's  view. 

3 


34  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  olden  feeling  is  restored  — 
The  pleasure  beaming  round  the  board 
Reveals,  in  colors  strong  and  clear, 
The  SPIRIT  OF  THE  PAST  is  here ! 
No  figment  of  the  brain  alone, 
But  flesh  and  blood  and  nerve  and  bone. 
The  hands  we  clasp  are  sentient  things; 
That  smile  no  ghostly  radiance  flings  ; 
Those  eyes  are  lit  by  friendship's  beam, 
That  fades  not  out  as  fades  a  dream  ; 
These  hearts  with  living  pulses  beat ; 
These  tongues  with  living  tones  are  sweet ; 
Those  waves  of  blue  that  yonder  flow 
Have  nought  ethereal  in  their  glow  ; 
The  bright  forms  glancing  by  our  side 
Are  objects  of  terrestrial  pride, 
Although,  adoringly,  we're  given 
To  deem  them  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Then  give  to  Love  the  sovereign  power ; 
Let  its  blest  influence  rule  the  hour; 
And,  waked  anew,  may  it  impart 
A  warmer  sunshine  to  the  heart, 
That  shall,  as  once  again  we  roam, 
Relume  the  path  that  leads  to  HOMK  ! 


TWENTT  TEARS  LATER.  35 


TWENTY   YEARS    LATER.* 

GLEAM,  waves  of  swift  Piscataqua, 

Sing,  woods  on  tranquil  Kittery's  side, 
Shout,  Newington  upon  the  Bay, 
Ye  airs  of  "  Greenland's  icy,"  play, 
And  Old  Rye  mingle  with  the  tide  ; 

Let  "  kettle  to  the  trumpet  speak, 

The  trumpet  to  the  cannoneer  ;  " 
Ring,  bells,  whose  tones  o'er  Walker's  Creek, 
Through  distant  vales,  shall  echoes  seek, 
And  bring  them  willing  captives  here,  — 

For  every  heart  is  full  to-day, 

And  everything,  in  sweet  accord, 

Must  tributary  honors  pay, 

To  recognize  the  genial  sway 

Of  JOY,  the  season's  sovereign  lord. 

Our  good  old  Mother  spreads  her  arms 
To  welcome  back  her  sons  to-day, 

Who  come  from  worldly  strifes  and  harms, 

Responsive  to  the  potent  charms 

That  still  among. them  all  hold  sway. 

1  Delivered  on  the  Return  of  the  Sons  of  Portsmouth,  July  4,  1873. 


36  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

From  scenes  afar,  with  lengthened  ranks, 

They  to  her  side  maternal  fly, 
Forgot  the  early  duteous  spanks 
That  fell  in  showers  upon  their  flanks 
When  driven  abroad  their  fate  to  try. 

No  cause  for  murmuring  at  the  fact ; 

'Twas  Providence,  in  kind  disguise, 
That  sent  them  off  to  think  and  act, 
To  cultivate  the  world's  great  tract, 

And  make  men  better  and  more  wise. 


This  is  the  mission  every  "  son  " 

Is  obligated  to  perform  ; 
And,  in  the  long,  decisive  run, 
Invariably  it  is  done, 

As  all  confess  with  feeling  warm. 

The  pulpit,  law,  the  trades,  the  mart, 

The  press,  and  schools,  where'er  you  search, 

Perform,  it  seems,  a  better  part, 

With  more  efficiency  and  heart, 

When  trade-marked  by  the  Old  North  Church. 

How  wide  they're  scattered  !  every  land 
And  every  sea  some  one  may  show ; 

From  Egypt's  yellow  glistening  sand, 

To  where  the  icy  floes  expand, 

And  the  North  Pole  sticks  through  the  snow. 


TWENTY   YEARS  LATER.  37 

They  take,  of  course,  the  foremost  place, 

With  modesty  that  is  not  weak, 
And  soon  as  seen  a  Portsmouth  face, 
Contestants  cease  to  urge  the  race, 

Awed  into  silence  by  its  cheek. 

But  right  the  record  that  they  show, 

In  worth  and  manliness  and  "  sich  ;  " 
And  every  one,  as  we  well  know, 
Succeeds  from  the  first  signal,  "  Go  !  " 
And  all  are  virtuous  and  rich. 


But,  grandest  trait  of  those  who  roam, 

Their  "  hearts  untravelled  "  here  have  rest 
E'en  though  the  hair,  like  ocean  foam, 
'Circleth  the  base  of  thought's  high  dome, 
They  ne'er  forget  their  primal  nest. 

The  "  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon," 

Who  "  pipes  and  whistles,"  minus  teeth, 
Feels  his  whole  heart  with  joy  attune, 
And  all  the  fires  of  life's  young  June 
Glowing  with  ardor  underneath. 

'Twixt  farthest  Indus  and  the  Pole, 

Climb  heights  remote  from  human  tread, 
You'll  find,  cut  on  that  lofty  scroll, 
Some  name,  familiar  to  your  soul, 

Carved  on  the  old-time  Fountain  Head. 


3§  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

One  I  remember,  years  aback, 

Friend  and  companion  of  my  youth, 
Who  early  was  compelled  to  pack, 
Because  police  were  on  his  track, 
For  some  small  error  and  unruth. 


I  heard  from  him  —  south,  west,  and  east, 

At  last  as  being  in  Feegee, 
Tattooed  and  feathered,  sheared  and  greased, 
Presiding  o'er  a  local  feast 

Among  the  islands  of  the  sea. 

Another,  too,  of  grotesque  mien, 

Who  mixed  with  us  in  boyhood's  day, 
Lacking  the  lively  "  pistareen," 
Put  out  from  home,  two  days  between, 
And  vanished  from  these  scenes  away. 

# 

He  for  a  while  from  sight  was  lost, 

When  an  exploring  sailor  man 
Saw  him,  cross-legged,  upon  a  post, 
The  admiration  of  a  host  — 

A  heathen  god  in  Hindustan. 

So  when  Bill  Gibson  disappeared, 

—  That  ne'er-do-well,  the  neighbors'  tease  — 
For  whom  a  fatal  end  was  feared 
By  that  contrivance,  looped  and  geared, 

That  settles  grave  delinquencies,  — 


TWENTY  TEARS  LATER.  39 

Alter  long  years  had  passed  away, 

A  traveller  'neath  Turkish  skies 
Saw,  clad  in  elegant  array, 
With  servants  rich,  in  livery  gay, 

A  form  that  filled  him  with  surprise  : 

'Twas  Bill,  whom  fate  had  hither  cast, 

That  his  astonished  vision  saw, 
Fanned  by  four  sudras  as  he  passed, 
With  money  and  importance  vast, 

A  real  seven-tailed  bashaw. 

So  Portsmouth  girls  in  marriage  hide, 

—  Forgotten  or  unknown  their  sphere,  — 
But  strong  and  true  the  tender  pride 
Which  draws  them  to  the  river  side, 
And  here  again  they  reappear. 

Ever  to  Portsmouth  instincts  true, 
We.  find,  what  time  like  this  imparts, 

That,  like  the  old  "  dame  of  the  shoe," 

They  duty's  line  have  kept  in  view, 

And  in  their  spheres  reigned  Queens  of  Hearts. 

If  lady's,  or  if  humbler  role 

They're  called  to,  you  may  bet  your  life 
That,  in  the  atmosphere  of  soul, 
Where  the  domestic  gods  control, 

No  discount's  asked  for  them  as  wife. 


40  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

We  fain  would  kiss  sweet  Mary  Ann, 

As  erst  we  did  in  early  youth, 
But  wholly  modify  our  plan 
As  we  behold  that  other  man, 

And  fear  to  risk  our  only  tooth. 

Why  all  don't  marry,  we  might  quiz, 

But  if  for  lack  of  love  or  pelf, 
That  is  their  own  especial  "  biz  ;  " 
We  only  know  that  what  is,  is, 

And  each  knows  how  it  is  herself. 

Now  "home  again,"  but,  O,  how  changed 
Each  scene,  beneath  the  flight  of  years  ! 
The  old-time  scenery  deranged, 
The  good  old  neighborhoods  estranged  — 
Recalled  through  memory  and  tears. 

We  scarce  a  single  rood  retrace, 

—The  schools  and  play-grounds  disappeared 
We  strive  "  Old  Cellar  "  to  replace, 
We  miss  the  "  Great  Rock's"  honest  face, 

The  "  Willows"  that  our  boyhood  cheered. 

"  Penhallow's  Field"  has  left  no  sign, 
And  structures  rise  o'er  former  sites, 
Where  eager  Boyhood  watched  the  shine 
Of  lightning  from  the  cloudy  line 

O'er  "  Christian  Shore  "  on  summer  nights. 


TWENTY   TEARS  LATER.  41 

Growth,  growth,  though  not  perceived  at  home, 

Steals  silently  along  each  track  ; 
Noted  alone  by  those  who  roam, 
—  Seeds  germinant  in  kindred  loam, — 

Hiding  the  path  on  looking  back. 

And  where  are  they,  the  loving  ones, 

We  left  behind  when  forth  we  came? 
Dear,  unambitious,  homebred  "  Sons  !  " 
They've  had  their  "  innings"  and  their  "  runs," 
And  long  ago  closed  up  the  game. 

Yet  here  and  there  a  form  we  meet, 

Time-honored  relics  of  the  past, 
With  dimming  eyes  and  lagging  feet, 
Who  our  returning  presence  greet, 

Tried,  true,  and  faithful  to  the  last. 

The  capillary  ducts  may  dry, 

The  nerves  by  age  may  be  unstrung, 

Passion  no  more  may  fire  the  eye  ;  — 

But,  though  the  faculties  deny, 

The  heart  will  evermore  be  young. 

I  met  Apollo  here  to-day, 

—  As  full  of  genius  as  an  egg,  — 
With  music,  art,  and  verse  in  play, 
As  actively  as  when  away 

I  went,  my  destiny  to  beg. 


42  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

'Twas  MOSKS,  not  of  Horeb  fame, 
But  gentle,  tasteful  Thomas  P., 
Whose  heart  is  lit  with  art's  true  flame, 
Self-fed,  —  the  more  to  others'  shame,  — 
A  martyr  to  the  Graces  three. 


And  here  we  meet  'neath  native  skies, 
With  soberness  and  gladness  blent ; 
And  our  old  mother's  kindly  eyes 
Have  looked  to  all  our  small  supplies, 
On  hospitality  in-tent. 

God  bless  her  —  bless  us,  every  one  ! 

Give  pleasure  unrestricted  power, 
And  every  daughter,  every  son, 
When  care  again  the  field  hath  won, 

Shall  breathe  a  blessing  on  this  hour. 

The  harp  that  twenty  years  ago 

Made  some  pretence  to  lyric  fire, 
Now  halts  and  slackens  in  its  flow, 
Like  turgid  treacle  running  slow, 
And  is  at  best  a  feeble  lyre  ; 

Yet  while  its  chords  can  sound  a  strain, 

If  not  so  musical  and  grand, 
'Twill  true  to  this  sweet  thought  remain 
That  brings  us,  children,  home  again, 
Beside  our  mother's  knee  to  stand. 


T  WENTT-  ONE.  4  j> 


TWENTY-ONE.* 

How  glad  the  time  when  Boyhood  hears, 

From  Fancy's  tongue,  in  all  its  ears, 

The  prophecy  of  wealth  and  fun 

To  culminate  with  twenty-one  ! 

What  glories  to  the  vision  ope, 

As  Hope  unfolds  her  horoscope  ! 

What  fairy  fringes  girt  around 

The  sweep  of  earth's  enchanted  bound  ! 

What  myriad  promises  we  see 

Awaiting  in  the  time  To-Be  !  — 

That  golden  time  of  freedom  shown, 

When,  Manhood  gained,  we  stand  alone, 

To  sport  a  bran-new  freedom  coat, 

And  pay  a  suffrage  tax,  and  vote  ; 

To  stand  for  office  in  the  town, 

And  be  elected  or  put  down  ; 

To  trot  with  parties,  and  abuse 

All  who  to  vote  with  us  refuse  ; 

*  Delivered  on  the  Twenty-first  Anniversary  of  the  Star  of  Bethlehem 
Lodge,  Chelsea,  Nov.  7,  1864.  The  general  principle  inculcated  in  this  poem 
will  apply,  like  an  almanac  calculation,  to  many  latitudes. 


44  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

In  legal  right  to  sell  and  buy, 
With  not  a  soul  to  question  why ! 

Manhood  !  the  crown  of  Nature's  plan, 

How  grand  the  boon  to  be  a  man  ! 

But  not  in  garments'  form,  alone, 

Is  that  which  makes  men  manly  shown  ; 

Not  by  the  whiskers  or  the  beard, 

—  A  man's  monopoly  revered,  — 

For  those  who  wear  no  beards  at  all, 

Or  clothes  that  one  might  manly  call, 

Move  in  the  world  with  mind  and  heart, 

And  act,  far  best,  the  manly  part ; 

And  often  where  supreme  success 

Has  seemed  the  fruit  of  manliness, 

'Tis  half  suspected  that  the  aid 

Received  at  home  success  has  made, 

Provoking,  oftentimes,  the  jest, 

That  changing  garments  might  be  best ! 

'Tis  not  the  size  that  manly  makes  — 

A  big  man  may  be  "  no  great  shakes," 

And  one  that's  small  we  often  see 

May  yet  a  monstrous  failure  be. 

'Tis  not  the  beauty  of  the  face 

That  gives  to  manliness  its  grace, 

Though  manly  thoughts  do  spread  a  glow 

Upon  the  human  face,  we  know. 

The  lantern  can't  illume  a  bit 

Until  the  lamp  within  is  lit, 

And  then,  out  shining  forth,  it  streams, 

To  cheer  and  gladden  by  its  beams. 


TWENTY-ONE.  45 

And  time,  alone,  don't  make  the  man  ; 

For  eighty  years  were  but  a  span 

If  spent  in  simply  selfish  aims, 

Regardless  of  another's  claims. 

A  century  of  sordid  strife 

Is  but  the  shadow  of  a  life 

Compared  with  his  who  good  essays, 

And  spends  in  generous  acts  his  days. 

Old  Hunks  may  ply  all  trading  art 

To  pile  up  dollars  in  the  mart,  — 

May  have  his  coffers  haply  lined 

With  greenbacks  of  the  "  tender"  kind, 

And  coupons  ready  to  be  met 

In  golden  eagles,  "  screaming  "  yet  — 

But  what  is  he,  when  all  is  told, 

More  than  an  image  made  of  gold, 

Without  the  will,  the  manhood  true, 

To  exercise  the  means  to  do  ? 

W^e  own  no  manhood  such  as  this  ; 

For  no  such  luck  is  ours,  I  wis, 

As  Providence,  in  kindly  mood, 

Keeps  from  our  doors  the  tempting  brood 

That  comes  with  overweening  wealth, 

And  safely  shields  our  moral  health, 

Permitting  us  to  be  controlled 

By  better  qualities  than  gold  ! 

We  feel  the  favor,  but  confess 

It  goes  beyond  our  ken  to  guess 

Why  virtuous  attributes  like  ours 

Should  be  curtailed  thus  of  their  powers  — 


46  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

So  much  of  human  good  to  win, 
So  little  of  the  needed  "  tin." 
The  poor  for  others  keenly  feel, 
And  want  of  cash  awakens  zeal  ; 
The  exercise  of  constant  care 
Excites  a  growth  of  manhood  rare, 
Which  may  not  dazzle  like  the  sun, 
But,  like  a  stream,  its  course  may  run, 
Gladdening  the  banks  it  flows  between 
With  garniture  of  living  green  ; 
Cheering  the  heart  of  tree  and  flower 
By  quiet  effluence  of  power  ; 
Speeding  its  way  on  tranquilly 
Until  it  meets  the  eternal  sea  !  — 
Such  manhood  as  forever  cheers 
Along  the  great  highway  of  years : 
Not  by  the  grandeur  of  its  state, 
But  by  its  acts  more  good  than  great, 
By  word  or  wish  in  kindness  given, 
Fraught  with  the  melody  of  heaven  ; 
True  manhood,  based  on  love  sublime, 
A  miracle  of  good  in  Time. 

A  cloud  o'er  Winnisimmet*  hung, 
And  shadows  dwelt  its  scenes  among, 
Which  with  a  gloom  Tartarean  fell 
Upon  the  sons  of  Ishmael 
That  in  that  famed  locale  are  found, 
Whose  contradictions  so  abound 

*  Chelsea. 


TWENTY-ONE.  47 

That  it  would  seem  some  high  decree 
Made  all  agree  to  disagree. 

The  faithful  'mid  the  darkness  groped 
And  prayed  for  light,  and  warmly  hoped, 
Till,  through  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shed  its  light, 
And  in  the  East,  o'er  Powderhorn, 
A  day  of  radiant  joy  was  born  ! 

As  on  the  old  Judean  plain 
Was  heard  the  glad,  sublime  refrain, 
So  did  attending  angels  then 
Proclaim  good  will  and  peace  to  men  ! 

As  principle,  incarnate,  moves 

Upon  its  course  in  human  grooves, 

The  Star  assumed  terrestrial  form, 

With  attributes  and  feelings  warm, 

To  speed,  with  ready  will,  and  aid 

Where  sorrow's  sad  appeal  was  made ; 

To  reach  the  hand  with  pity  warm 

Where  fell  severe  misfortune's  storm  ; 

To  bid  the  brimming  eye  o'erflow 

While  contemplating  human  woe ; 

To  pluck  up  sinking  Manhood,  tost 

On  life's  dark  sea,  with  hope  all  lost ; 

All  human  ill  to  try  appease 

And  lead  man  heavenward  —  by  degrees! 

Imperfect  oft,  but  still  it  grew", 

Fired  with  the  constant  wish  to  do. 


• 


48  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

.    And  what  accomplished  ?  —  ask  the  heart 
That  caught  its  gleam  in  sorrow's  smart, 
When,  'mid  the  waves  of  mortal  woe, 
Its  words  were  heard  in  accents  low, 
Like  those  of  the  Almighty  will 
Which  hade  the  vexed  seas  be  still ; 
The  widow,  in  her  stricken  state, 
When  all  the  world  seemed  desolate, 
What  solace  on  her  anguish  fell 
And  made  her  murmur,  "  It  is  well ;  " 
The  brother,  in  his  dying  hour, 
When  earthly  scenes  had  lost  their  power. 
That  whispered  in  his  failing  ear 
Blest  words  of  comfort  and  of  cheer ; 
The  orphan,  in  his  youthful  pain, 
Made  hopefully  to  smile  again, 
Forgetting  all  his  boding  fears, 
Loving  and  trusting  through  his  tears. 

But  just  begun  the  man's  career 
When  boyhood's  frailties  disappear, 
And -all  the  good  the  past  has  shown 
Is  education's  germ  alone. 
The  vanished  years'  important  sum 
Is  but  the  type  of  that  to  come  — 
Initial  hint  of  work  to  do, 
Success  the  grand  reward  in  view. 

The  love  we  sow  in  early  youth 
Will  grow  in  majesty  and  truth, 
And  lessons  learned,  at  whate'er  cost, 


TWENTY-ONE.  49 

Are  never  in  the  future  lost. 

And  so  the  seeds  that  we  have  strewed 

Along  life's  thorny,  troubled  road, 

Grow  up  to  trees,  whose  branches  spread 

And  cast  their  shadows  far  ahead, 

Or  lade  the  breeze  with  odors  sweet, 

Or  scatter  blessings  round  our  feet. 

In  times  when  'prentices  were  free, 
A  day  they  gave  to  jollity  ; 
A  "  freedom  frolic,"  fraught  with  fun, 
To  crown  the  welcome  twenty-one. 
The  glad  occasion  we  recall : 
The  egg-nog,  supper,  and  the  ball, 
The  roaring  song,  the  hearty  cheer, 
The  wicked  pranks,  the  stories  queer  ; 
The  "  old  man  "  joining  with  the  boys 
In  all  their  mirth  and  all  their  noise, 
While,  looking  on  with  pleasant  mien, 
The  mistress  and  the  girls  are  seen, 
To  hold  in  check  the  rampant  mood 
By  womanly  beatitude. 

And  we,  upon  our  gala  day, 
Throw  all  disturbing  care  away, 
To  mingle  in  a  festive  scene 
Of  happiness  and  joy  serene. 
Not  with  the  olden  spirit  shown, 
But  in  a  nectar  of  our  own  — 
A  spirit  that  ne'er  burns  the  lip, 
The  spirit  of  good  fellowship  ; 
4 


50  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

While  on  us  beam  those  loving  eyes, 
Whose  glances  and  whose  smiles  we  prize, 

—  Whose  influence  cheers  us  as  we  go, — 
That  make  a  heaven,  of  course,  below. 
So  bards  have  sung,  since  early  time, 
With  truth  not  always  found  in  rhyme. 

We  hear  the  call  of  duty  plain  ; 
We  see  the  Star  beam  forth  again, 

& 

As  erst  it  fell  on  Bethlehem, 

—  The  gem  in  Night's  fair  diadem, 
That  on  the  brow  of  darkness  lay, 
With  man's  salvation  in  its  ray,  — 
And  taking  courage  with  our  view, 
We  cheerfully  the  path  pursue. 

To  public  eyes  the  veil  we  raise, 
Not  courting  scrutiny  nor  praise  ; 
Making  no  meaningless  pretence, 
And  asking  nought  but  confidence. 
Though  secret  are  our  forms  and  rites, 
That  call  us  out  sometimes  o'  nights, 
This  thought  regard  should  never  lack : 
We  brjng  a  better  feeling  back, 
To  compensate  the  hearts  at  home 
For  all  the  moments  that  we  roam. 

No  angry  eyes  or  aspect  blue 

Would  e'er  be  seen  —  if  folks  but  knew, 

And  as  they  don't,  we  let  it  rest 

Till  works  make  virtue  manifest. 


T  WENT  T-  ONE.  5 1 

O,  may  the  zeal  that  wakened  when 

The  Star  first  gave  its  light  to  men, 

Descend  and  stimulate  each  heart 

To  act  with  faithfulness  its  part ! 

That,  when  the  labor  of  our  love 

Is  squared  by  Overseers  above, 

We  may  the  glad  approval  hear, 

Within  our  spirit-quickened  ear  : 

GOOD  WORK  !  well  done,  ye  good  and  true  ; 

Take  the  reward  that  is  your  due. 


52  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


JUBILEE   RHYMES.* 

SUBLIME  the  principle  that  hither  brings 
So  many  happy  souls  in  one  together ; 

To  sit  beneath  our  Order's  tree,  that  flings 

Its  branches  proudly  wide  this  April  weather  ;  — 

Whose  shoots  extend  out  far  o'er  land  and  sea  ; 

Whose  shadow,  calm,  refreshes,  cheers,  and  blesses, 
And  the  grand  province  of  whose  ministry 

The  heart  of  man  in  gratitude  confesses. 

Its  fruits  divine  of  FRIENDSHIP,  LOVE,  and  TRUTH, 
Hang  on  the  bough  in  ripe  luxuriance  growing, 

Whose  taste  shall  give  the  heart  perpetual  youth  — 
The  antepast  of  heavenly  pleasures  knowing. 

FRIENDSHIP  !  —  By  what  immunity  claim  we 
A  patent  o'er  the  world  of  friendship  purer? 

Men  use  it,  as  pretended,  constantly, 
And  are  we  in  its  promises  securer? 

*  Extracts  from  a  Poem  read  in  Boston,  April  26,  i8f>g,  on  the  Fiftieth  An 
niversary  of  the  Establishment  of  Odd  Fellowship  in  America. 


JUBILEE  RHYMES.  53 

The  friendship  of  the  world  is  selfishness, 
Cemented  sordidly  by  base  attraction  ; 

That  flees  us  in  the  hour  of  our  distress,  — 
If  prosperous,  is  greedy  in  exaction. 

Who  is  it  gets  his  name  upon  your  note? 

Who  backbites,  vilifies,  defrauds,  belies  you  ? 
Who  steals  your  wife,  your  purse,  your  Sunday  coat? 

Your  friend,  of  course,  and  after  that  defies  you. 

Our  friendship  here  is  based  upon  a  rock  — 
The  ezel  stone  of  solemn  obligation  ; 

That  stands  a  citadel  against  the  shock 
Of  mercenary  or  profane  temptation. 

The  word  once  given,  the  hand  in  hand  once  placed, 
The  compact  lives,  and  no  contingent  swindle 

E'er  mars  the  strength  of  obligations  traced, 
Or  tends  the  faith  of  Brotherhood  to  dwindle. 

This  is  the  rule  —  exceptions  rare  occur 
Of  friendship  lost  in  unredeeming  treason  ; 

As  rare  as  porcine  tendency  to  fur, 
Or  hyacinths  in  huckleberry  season. 

LOVE  !  —  world-abused  —  here  has  a  special  home  ; 

A  love  that's  just,  and  pure,  and  wise,  and  human  , 
No  spasm  of  an  hour  to  rave  and  foam, 

Crazing  the  heads  of  spoony  man  and  woman. 


54  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

To  vent  in  sighs,  and  pine  away  and  mope, 

And  in  the  gloom  of  hope  despondent  languish  ; 

To  see  upon  a  beam  a  pendent  rope, 

To  end  the  throes  of  love's  tempestuous  anguish  ; 

That  raves  in  jealous  pangs,  and  storms,  and  tears, 
And  weeps  and  shoots,  as  fitful  as  the  weather  — 

As  if  pure  Love,  that  suffers  and  forbears, 
Could  live  with  Hate  in  harmony  together ! 

But,  in  the  guise  of  Charity  divine, 

Love  sweetly  stands,  beneficence  bestowing  ; 

Around  her  brow  celestial  glories  shine, 
As  radiant  as  the  day  her  features  glowing. 

She  seeks  the  scene  where  Poverty  prevails, 
She  pours  the  balm  of  heavenly  consolation  ; 

She  cheers  the  heart  that  Misery  assails, 
She  elevates  by  holy  impartation. 

The  greatest,  best  of  all  the  exalted  train, 
Of  gifts  to  man  for  his  improvement  given  ; 

Hers  is  the  star  whose  glory  shall  remain 
When  fade  away  the  orbs  of  stellar  heaven. 

The  claim  of  TRUTH  was  ne'er  more  plainly  shown 

By  the  Jew  leader  unto  King  Darius, 
Than  it  appears  in  tenets  that  we  own, 

Which  are,  or  ought  to  be,  kept  sacred  by  us. 


JUBILEE   RHYMES.  55 

The  truth,  in  dealing  betwixt  man  and  man, 
Is  made  incumbent  by  our  rule's  exaction  ; 

And  he  who  lies,  at  once  lies  under  ban, 
Amenable,  so  held,  for  law's  infraction. 

Some  may  have  slips — the  truth  comes  hard  to  some — 

And  lying  is  so  easy  and  so  ready ! 
They're  just  like  topers  giving  up  their  rum, 

And  must  relapse  before  they  get  quite  steady. 

The  Truth  should  be  the  Truth,  wherever  found, 
But  'tis  so  rare,  outside,  we  seldom  find  it; 

And  what  seems  true  within  the  worldly  round, 
Nine  times  in  ten  a  lie  lies  hid  behind  it. 

Our  creed  is  broad,  and  acts  upon  the  life, 
Too  high  at  points  polemical  to  cavil : 

We  shun  the  courts  of  fierce  sectarian  strife, 
As  roads  to  Jordan  —  far  too  hard  to  travel. 

As  citizens,  we  point  them  to  our  acts  ; 

Ask  the  collector  what  return  we  make  him  ; 
We  feel  the  burden,  but  accept  the  facts, 

And  meet  the  issue  like  a  Mohawk  sachem. 

Beyond  the  links  that  bind  us  all  as  one, 

We  have  no  u  rings"  for  cheating  or  deceiving; 

Whiskey  through  our  enclosure  does  not  run  — 
No  actions  rest  'gainst  us  for  genteel  thieving. 


56  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Ill  this  we're  very  Odd,  as  we  behold, 

On  every  hand,  such  swindling  operation ; 

'Twould  seem  the  land  to  fraud  and  wrong  were  sold, 
Involving  it  in  one  grand  condemnation. 

It  may,  as  in  the  days  of  Sodom,  be, 

When  judgment  threatens  with  its  doom  impending. 
Odd  Fellowship,  in  its  integrity, 

Will  interpose  to  turn  the  blade  descending. 

By  deeds,  not  years,  we  count  an  active  life, 
And  fifty  years  of  such  supreme  devotion, 

With  principle  and  love  of  duty  rife, 

Are  more  than  centuries  by  common  notion. 

And  good  to  come  takes  promise  from  to-day  — 
Based  on  the  Past,  so  full  of  truth  and  vigor ; 

Though  but  our  spring-time,  yet  the  vernal  ray 
Dispels  all  fear  of  any  chilling  rigor. 

The  sun  and  rain  shall  give  the  glad  increase, 
And  crowded  wains  of  benefits  accruing, 

Shall  crown  the  harvest-home  with  sheaves  of  peace, 
To  bless  the  workers  for  their  faithful  doing. 

That  Future  !  —  to  its  destiny  we  turn, 

And  see  it  rayed  with  grandest  coruscation  ; 

Its  altar-fires  on  every  hill-top  burn, 

And  tenfold  light  impart  throughout  the  nation. 


JUBILEE  RHYMES.  57 

Its  ministry  subserves  the  cause  of  Peace, 

Remembered  war  in  loving  kindness  merging; 

Bidding  the  bitterness  of  hate  to  cease, 

And  holding  back  all  hostile  billows  surging; 

Adding  the  charm  of  dignity  and  grace 

To  sanctify  and  consecrate  all  labor ; 
Giving  to  virtue  higher  rank  and  place, 

And  demonstrating  who  is  the  true  "  neighbor." 

We're  not  perfection,  —  far  from  it,  indeed,  — 
And  long  may  be  the  time  ere  we  attain  it ; 

A  tree  grows  not  instanter  from  the  seed, 

And  strength  accrues  from  effort  made  to  gain  it. 

And  we,  united  in  a  purpose  true. 

Will  prove,  beyond  all  sceptical  denying, 

What  Brotherhood,  in  compact  firm,  can  do, 
Upon  the  anvil  of  incessant  trying. 


53  LINES'  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


MODERN   CHIVALRY.* 

THE  days  of  chivalry  have  not  departed  — 
The  glory  of  the  olden  time  remains  : 

Speaking  through  Manhood,  strong  and  noble-hearted, 
Endowed  with  muscle,  energy,  and  brains. 

No  whit  decrying  ancient  knightly  glory, 
We  urge  a  claim  commanding  for  our  own, 

That  writes  on  current  fields  more  grand  a  story 
Than  aught  achieved  in  ages  that  have  flown. 

What  sense  was  it  to  hack,  and  cut,  and  harry, 

And  live  in  constant  peril  of  the  life, 
Through  tribulation  dire  to  court  and  marry, 

And  in  an  iron  suit  espouse  a  wife? 

\\hat  merit  was  it  to  carve  up  a  Paynim, 
And  hang  his  head  upon  the  saddle-bow? 

Or  catch  a  Jew,  and  of  his  ducats  drain  him, 
Then  slit  his  nose  and  Jet  the  Hebrew  go  ? 


*  Delivered  in  Chr.rlcstcwn  before  Coeur  de  Lion  Comman:lery  and  a  Del 
egation  from  Palestine  Commamlery,  Chelsea. 


MODERN  CHIVALRT.  59 

What  merit  was  it  to  go  galivanting, 

—  With  lauce  in  rest,  and  armed  all  cap-a-pie, — 
The  fearful  folk  with  fierce  assumption  daunting, 

And  stealing  everything  that  they  could  see? 

What  was  the  sense  of  their  continual  straying, 
By  paths  with  constant  violence  bestrewed, 

Running  the  risk,  while  seeking  heathen-slaying, 
Of  getting,  maybe,  full  as  often  slewed? 

'Twas  chivalric  to  deprecate  all  labor, 

—  The  land  divided  into  feudal  farms, — 

With  each  man's  hand  upraised  against  his  neighbor, 
And  even  infants  always  up  in  arms. 

The  social  qualities  were  ne'er  paraded  : 
My  lady  sat,  shut  in  a  cage-like  tower, 

Within  a  deep  seclusion,  uninvaded, 

No  friend  with  scandal  to  beguile  the  hour. 

Unless  some  troubadour,  his  strains  outpouring, 
Came  to  her  bower  with  euphonistic  rhyme, 

Or  some  young  knight,  his  queen  of  love  imploring, 
The  lady  passed  a  very  sorry  time. 

Arrayed  in  richest  silks,  with  many  a  jewel, 
With  maidens  plenty  to  do  her  behest, 

Her  fate  was  like  her  working  worsteds,  crewel, 
Her  days,  the  semblance  of  a  past  unblest. 


60  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

No  concerts,  theatres,  operas,  or  dances, 
To  female  life  gave  buoyancy  and  zest ; 

The  girls  made  banners  for  their  heroes'  lances, 
Or  handkerchiefs  to  wear  upon  their  crest. 

The  tournament  was  then  the  great  occasion, 

Where  Queens  of  Beauty  gave  the  meed  of  fame ; 

When  cracking  heads  and  murderous  abrasion 
Were  but  incentives  to  love's  tender  flame. 

And  bright  eyes  flashed  at  the  exploits  of  valor, 
As  horse  and  rider  floundered  on  the  ground, 

Nor  bore  their  part  with  aught  of  fear  or  pallor, 
Where  blows,  for  fun,  promiscuous  blew  around. 

Were  it  in  earnest,  they,  perhaps,  might  shrink  it, 
But  simply  cutting  oft*  a  head  or  two, 

Or  carving  folks  with  swords,  they  didn't  think  it 
A  thing  about  which  to  make  much  ado. 

Then  every  knight,  who  held  a  sphere  respected, 
Kept  in  his  train  a  jester,  full  of  jokes, 

Whose  gibes,  to  criticism  ne'er  subjected, 
Made  lots  of  laughter  'mong  the  gentlefolks. 

Then  was  a  time  when  oxen  whole  were  roasted, 
And  saltless,  pepperless,  in  junks  devoured  ; 

And  when  the  knightly  gentlemen  were  toasted, 
In  quarts  of  wine  the  deep  libation  poured. 


MODERN  CHIVALRY.  6 1 

Then  knightly  heads  did  all  the  needed  thinking ; 

The  people  in  benightedness  were  hid  : 
Fighting  and  robbing,  sleeping,  eating,  drinking, 

Comprised  the  active  business  that  they  did. 

The  people  were  not  much  in  scale  of  being ; 

Once  born,  the  whole  in  life  they  had  in  view 
Was  but  to  see  just  as  their  lords  were  seeing, 

And  do  just  what  their  lords  would  have  them  do. 

They  had  no  souls  then  reckoned  worth  the  saving, 
No  souls  their  own  at  any  point  of  time  ; 

No  higher  fortune  e'er  thought  they  of  craving, 
Nor  for  the  future  cared  a  single  dime. 

But  noble  men  were  there  the  age  redeeming, 

Who  gave  to  Chivalry  its  grandest  fame, 
Whose  names,  from  out  that  past  in  lustre  beaming, 
-  Our  warmest  meed  of  admiration  claim. 

These  rise  before  us  for  our  emulation  — 

In  principle  and  duty  ever  bright ; 
And  may  our  course,  in  honest  imitation, 

Secure  their  epitaph  at  last  —  GOOD  KNIGHT. 

We  need  no  armor  for  our  head's  protection 
Beyond  the  good  sword  hanging  at  our  side, 

One  "jab"  of  which,  if  given  in  right  direction, 
Settles  the  hash  for  him  on  whom  'tis  tried. 


62  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

A  Paynim  vile,  who  dares  provoke  our  anger, 

Never  again  the  outrage  will  renew  ; 
For,  with  the  offence,  out  comes  the  trenchant  hanger. 

And  in  a  moment  we  have  run  him  through  ! 

If  any  heathen  round  are  disappearing, 

Their  friends  need  make  no  worrying  or  fuss  ; 

They'xre  doubtless  gone  the  way  the  bad  are  steering. 
And  let  the  mourners  send  the  bill  to  us. 

But  there  be  Pay ni ins  whom  the  sword  can't  settle, 
Met  with  in  streets  and  lanes,  than  heathens  worse, 

Who  more  than  try  the  heart's  determined  metal, 
And  draw  upon  the  sympathies  and  purse. 

Here  gaunt-eyed  Want,  its  famished  form  uprearing, 
Makes,  in  sad  moans,  its  eloquent  appeals  ; 

Here  Sin  and  Wrong,  in  varied  guise  appearing, 
The  way  contest,  with  Misery  at  their  heels. 

Here  Virtue  shrieks  for  aid  against  Oppression  ; 

Here  Honor  constant  vindication  claims ; 
Here  Shoddy  flaunts  o'er  Worth,  in  strong  possession  ; 

Here  brazen  Impudence  scarce  hides  its  aims. 

Here  Lust  and  Pride,  a  constant  warfare  waging, 
Summon  to  guard  each  intervening  gate  ; 

While  Fraud  and  Theft,  in  subtle  fight  engaging, 
Like  Israel  Samson's  foemen,  lie  in  wait. 


MODERN  CHIVALRY.  63 

All  call  for  vigilance  and.  knightly  duty, 

To  keep  true  Manhood's  'scutcheon  ever  bright ; 

And  here  our  lists,  and  here  our  Queens  of  Beauty 
Award  our  meed  in  smiles  this  festal  night. 

We  make  no  raids  on  neighbors  who  offend  us, 
Or  wrathful  vials  on  their  sconces  empt ; 

We  take  the  weapons  prudent  counsels  lend  us. 
And  kill  them  off  by  kindness  or  —  contempt. 

We  sport  no  steeds  like  those  which  bore  to  battle 
The  fierce  Paladins  in  chivalric  days  ; 

We  patronize  a  different  sort  of  cattle, 

That  draw  our  horse-cars  through  our  public  ways. 

But  though  we  own  no  chargers  that  inherit 

The  fire  that  coursed  through  ancient  equine  veins, 

We  think  we've  chargers  that  show  equal  merit, 
Where  groceries  and  things  affect  our  gains. 

We  quaff  no  flagons  like  our  predecessors  — 
As  such  big  measures  are  not  often  round  ; 

We  roast  no  oxen  whole,  as  their  possessors 
Claim  for  a  sirloin  forty  cents  per  pound. 

It  doesn't  take  so  much  to  make  us  merry 
As  it  did  those  in  that  rum  age  sublime  ; 

We  sip  our  glass  of  lager,  or  of  sherry, 
Or  neither  do,  and  have  as  good  a  time. 


64  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Our  Dames  of  Chivalry  have  no  restriction  ; 

A  sad  temerity  were  his  who'd  dare 
To -strive  to  hold  the  reins  of  jurisdiction, 

And  not  of  government  give  them  a  share. 

No  shutting  them  in  cloister  and  seclusion, 
No  moping  they  for  want  of  due  employ  ; 

The  world  pours  at  their  feet  its  vast  profusion, 
With  us  their  knights,  all  days,  to  seek  their  joy. 

And  in  their  praise  our  troubadours  are  hymning, 
Pouring  like  pullets  their  enraptured  lays ; 

And,  quite  forgetting  bills  for  extra  trimming, 
We  hail  them  pride  and  glory  of  our  days. 

How  grand  they  are  in  all  that's  grand,  comparing 
With  those  insipid  dames  who  banners  wove, 

Worthy  of  all  true  knighthood  equal  sharing, 
The  Queens  of  Beauty  and  the  Queens  of  Love. 

Thus,  Then  and  Now,  in  candidness  contrasting, 
Shows  better  light  and  deeds  this  day  of  ours, 

With  guarantees,  like  buttons,  that  are  lasting, 
And  scope  for  all  our  elevated  powers. 

The  Cross  the  ancients  reared  we  still  do  cherish, 
And  keep  as  ours  its  venerated  sign, 

That  ne'er  through  disrespect  shall  fall  or  perish, 
Sustained  by  Coeur  de  Lion  and  Palestine. 


MODERN   CHIVALRY.  65 

Its  motto  ever  —  "In  hoc  signo  vinces" — 
Draws  from  its  scabbard  every  glistening  steel, 

And  the  same  glow  inspiring  Christian  princes 
Does  the  most  humble  of  our  brethren  feel. 

Then  to  the  Present  give  your  best  endeavor, 
To  help  the  Truth  and  benefit  your  race  ;. 

Fight  the  good  fight  with  zeal  and  might  forever, 
And  follow  virtue  with  an  earnest  CHASE. 


66  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE    PRESS.* 

A  PLAIN  and  unimaginative  rhyme 

Is  all  I  bring  to  grace  your  festal  time ; 

Shrinking  to  prelude  one  whose  brilliant  thought 

Must  place  my  drowsy  platitudes  at  nought, 

And,  with  the  glow  that  eloquence  inspires, 

Put  out  or  u  pale  my  ineffectual  fires." 

Bards  no  more  dream,  but  for  a  purpose  act, 

And  tune  their  harps  to  soberness  of  fact. 

So  pardon  me  if  I  decline  to  try 

My  Pegasus  in  Fancy's  burning  sky, 

And  stick  to  earth  with  earthly  prudence  meet, 

Unlike  those  mad  aeronauts  of  Crete, 

Who  borrowed  wings  of  wax  and  dared  the  sun, 

And  came  from  the  empyrean  u  by  the  run." 

I  sing  the  Press  —  the  mightiest  of  tools  — 

The  scourge  of  tyrants  and  the  phigue  of  fools  ; 

The  Press,  with  myriad  complications  fraught, 

The  grand  embodiment  of  current  thought, 

—  With  all  the  springs  and  cogs  and  wheels  and  cams, 

Comprising  the  realities  and  shams, — 

*  Read  at  Poughkeepsie,  June  18,    1873,   preceding    an  Address  by  Rev. 
Henry  Ward  Beecher. 


THE  PRESS.  67 

With  misery  or  benefaction  rife. 

That  form  the  passing  history  of  life. 

Like  old  Briareus,  with  his  hundred  hands  ; 

—  A  pen  in  each,  —  it  scopes  all  scenes  and  lands  ; 

Tells  us  of  sweeping  floods  and  earthquakes  dire  ; 

Of  wrecks  by  sea,  and  loss  by  raging  fire  ; 

Tells  us  of  ruling  rates  in  fancy  stocks, 

And  accident  that  every  feeling  shocks  ; 

Tells  us  just  how  the  world  of  fashion  speeds, 

And  the  last  change  in  politics  or  creeds  ; 

Sings  us  sweet  songs  and  tells  us  wondrous  tales, 

And  scandals  dark  that  fill  the  gossipy  gales. 

The  Paper,  like  that  sheet  let  down  from  heaven, 

Which  Peter  edited,  —  see  Acts,  cap.  eleven, — 

Containing  everything  of  living  kind, 

Holds  up  life's  transcript  to  the  seeking  mind, 

Wherein  each  notes  the  thing  that  best  agrees 

With  his  or  her  own  whims  and  sympathies. 

Thus  Mr.  Slow  upon  his  stocks  may  feed, 

And  Angelina  o'er  the  romance  bleed, 

And  Georgie  glory  in  the  race  or  fight, 

And  Aunt  Keziah  in  the  deaths  delight  — 

A  well-spiced- feast  on  which  all  love  to  look, 

And  with  a  grateful  homage  thank  the  cook. 

See  the  dense  columns  under  General  Trade, 
Upon  the  public  pocket  bent  to  raid  ! 
Through  Fancy's  eyes  delightedly  we  pore 
O'er  trophies  brought  from  many  a  distant  shore, 
Commended  earnestly  to  eye  and  lip, 
Without  occasion  for  vexed  ownership  ; 


68  LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  wines  thus  quaffed  are  better  far  than  those 
Which  through  the  palate  jeopardize  the  toes  ! 
Ah,  great  is  Trade  !  —  we  have  our  every  wish, 
From  thousand  dollar  shawls  to  pickled  fish. 

The  Press  is  Education's  dexter  hand, 

And  wields  the  sceptre  of  a  wide  command. 

In  every  hamlet  'mid  our  native  hills, 

It  pours  rich  knowledge  through  a  thousand  rills, 

—  Rills,  like  the  gentle  brooks  which  ceaseless  run 
O'er  pebbly  beds  and  glisten  in  the  sun. 
Cheering  the  roots  of  herbage  and  of  flower, 
And  giving  freshness  to  the  arid  hour  — 

Sweet  mental  rills,  whose  sparkling  waters  wind 
Along  the  beauteous  summer  meads  of  mind, 
Quickening  the  precious  germs  of  living  truth 
Within  the  warm  receptive  soil  of  youth, 
Until  in  efflorescent  splendor  bright, 
A  VASSAR  gladdens  the  awakened  sight. 

Science,  once  hid  in  dark  mysterious  cells, 
No  longer  under  ban  or  shadow  dwells  ; 
Backed  by  the  power  the  power-press  affords, 

—  More  potent  far  than  ugly-tempered  swords, — 
Upspringing  to  our  view  on  every  side, 

The  fruits  of  teeming  science  are  descried  ; 
The  fact  matured  and  the  incipient  hint 
Rushing,  together,  on  the  waves  of  print. 

When  people  party  politics  perplex, 

And  all  their  hearts  with  earnest  seeking  vex, 


THE  PRESS.  69 

Deeming  that  they  are  called  by  special  fate 

To  rush  in  timely  and  redeem  the  state 

—  And  Heaven  knows,  and  we  whose  pockets  bleed, 

How  much  redemption  the  poor  state  doth  need  !  — 

When  party  greed,  whatever  its  cast  or  name, 

Sinks  all  pretence  to  honesty  and  shame, 

The  Press  its  interposing  mission  fills, 

And  virtuous  counsel  lavishly  instils  ; 

Proving  white  black,  and  honest  truth  a  fib, 

Or  the  reverse  of  this,  with  tactics  glib, 

And  daily  making,  for  our  wondrous  ken, 

Big  out  of  what  are  dreadful  little  men. 

Soft  Sentiment !  —  its  votaries  through  the  Press 

May  glut  their  tastes  with  exquisite  distress, 

And  sweet-drawn  misery,  like  molasses,  tart, 

And  thrills,  and  throbs,  and  throes  that  rend  the  heart, 

And  pangs,  and  darts,  and  agonies  that  shine, 

In  many  a  fond  impassioned  tender  line  ! 

Not  beef,  by  any  means  ;  that  after  comes, 

When  hunger  has  a  place  in  loving  homes, 

And  Emeline  and  Roy  —  once  more  awake  — 

Find  twice  the  nourishment  of  love  —  in  steak. 

Here  smiles  enkindle  where  the  mad  joke  gleams, 
Through  verbal  channels,  bright  as  lightning  beams, 
Or  the  fierce  tumult  of  a  hearty  laugh 
Crowns  the  quaint  climax  of  some  paragraph, 
Rousing  the  dull,  who  wonder  "  what's  to  pay," 
To  make  folks  chuckle  in  that  noisy  way  ? 


70  LINES  IN   PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  Press,  amid  a  world  of  care  and  dole, 
Brushes  the  cobwebs  from  the  dusty  soul, 
Which,  brightening  in  the  sunshine  that  it  flings, 
Sees  with  newr  eyes  a  thousand  pleasant  things  ; 
Finding  life  easier  by  its  teachings  gay, 
With  Hope  rekindled  lighting  up  the  way. 

And,  bright  amid  surrounding  verbiage, 

Records  of  loving  homes  illume  the  page, 

Where  fair  domestic  scenes  their  charms  impart, 

And  with  their  pleasant  teachings  win  the  heart. 

We  see  some  noble  duty  nobly  done, 

We  see  a  glorious  field  and  victory  won, 

We  see  true  Manliness  to  action  rise, 

We  see  Unselfishness  in  angel  guise, 

We  see  meek  Patience  waiting  by  the  way, 

We  see  sweet  Childhood  'mid  the  flowers  at  play, 

We  see  calm  Resignation's  placid  brow, 

We  see  the  blessings  that  from  Virtue  flow  ; 

The  gentle  spirit  the  recital  cheers, 

And  smiles  upon  it  through  delighted  tears. 

And  when  men  die  —  as  die  they  some  time  must  — 
The  Press  their  glories  piles  above  their  dust, 
And  the  freed  spirits  —  as  some  say  they  do  — 
Peering  with  ghostly  eyes  the  papers  through, 
May  read,  unheeding,  merits  of  their  own, 
That  all  their  life  long  they  have  never  known, 
And  deeming  some  one  else  is  praised,  may  pause 
To  say,  "  God  bless  us,  what  a  man  he  was  !  " 


THE  PRESS.  71 

The  Pulpit,  Physic,  Law,  lean  on  the  Press 

For  merit  that  the  world  might  never  guess  ; 

Their  sermons,  cases,  pleadings  scarcely  known, 

But  for  their  reproduction  broadcast  thrown, 

Puzzled  themselves,  sometimes,  when  they  have  read 

Bright  things  imputed  that  were  never  said. 

What  were  a  sermon  in  a  vestry's  sphere 

To  that  which  all  the  world  is  glad  to  hear? 

The  Poetasters  thank  the  Press  for  bays, 

When  they  achieve  their  euphuistic  lays, 

And  Lecturers  look  eagerly  to  see 

The  meed  accorded  their  brain  progeny, 

When  some  industrious  press-man  makes  a  raid, 

And  steals  and  prints  their  entire  stock  in  trade. 

Though  some  fare  bad  where  the  fierce  critic's  art 

o 

Discerns  Achilles'  vulnerable  part, 
And,  with  a  cruelty  of  venomed  wits, 
Gives  the  poor  wretch  unmitigated  "  fits." 

Thus  doth  the  Press  control  with  magic  sway 

All  matters  where  Humanity  has  play. 

Its  power  affects  all  earthly  things  and  scenes; 

Fixes  the  price  of  Liberty  and  - —  Beans  ; 

Soars  where  the  scintillating  planets  dwell, 

And  tells  us  who  has  groceries  to  sell ; 

Strives  for  the  acme  of  immortal  hope, 

And  advertises  patent  shaving  soap  ! 

A  Prospcro  upon  the  mental  plain, 

It  works  its  magic  by  the  wand  of  brain  ; 

—  Some,  ill-disposed,  who  fail  its  power  to  see, 


72  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Spell  wand,  in  malice,  with  a  final  t  — 

It  strikes  the  rock  where  thought's  bright  cry  stals  sleep, 

And  bids  them,  like  old  Horeb's  waters,  leap, 

Again  to  fall  upon  the  thirsty  earth 

In  drops  of  wisdom  or  refreshing  mirth. 

Its  nod  unchains  the  fierce  impetuous  steam 

To  do  its  bidding  with  exultant  scream  ; 

Compels  the  tide  to  work  its  sovereign  will, 

Compels  the  winds  its  flowing  sheet  to  fill, 

Compels  the  untamed  lightning  yield  its  aid, 

And  binds  it  an  auxiliary  to  trade. 

The  snowy  canvas  specks  for  it  the  main, 

For  it  the  fleetest  steeds  their  sinews  strain, 

Its  wakeful  Ariels  scale  the  beaming  sky 

And  look  the  fiery  comets  in  the  eye, 

Dig  deep  in  venous  caverns  of  the  earth, 

And  hidden  wonders  bring  to  living  birth, 

Ride  on  the  ice-rim  round  the  Boreal  sea, 

Or  lunch  on  missionary  in  Feejee. 

Those  Ariels  of  the  Press,  Reporters  hight, 

How  limitless  the  compass  of  their  flight! 

Nor  height  nor  depth  their  daring  course  can  stay, 

When  some  fresh  item  dawns  upon  their  way. 

Give  Agassiz  a  bone,  and  at  your  wish, 

He'll  reproduce  for  you  a  perfect  fish  ; 

Give  a  reporter  but  a  timid  hint, 

And,  straight,  a  column  is  beheld  in  print. 

Talk  of  the  burning  u  pencils  "  of  the  sun  ! 

What  are  they  all  to  his  official  one, 

Who,  chasing  Truth  thro'  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 


THE  PRESS.  73 

Impales  it  on  its  point  as  'twere  a  fly  ? 

"  Look  comets  in  the  eye,"  forsooth  !  'tis  weak 

To  emblemize  his  quality  of  "  cheek," 

Who,  if  Old  Nick  were  near,  would  straight  pursue, 

And  show  him  up  in  some  shrewd  "  interview." 

"  The  pen  in  hands  of  men  entirely  great 

Is  mightier  than  the  sword,"  the  poets  state  ; 

A  fact  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt, 

That  people  are  continually  finding  out. 

The  Editor  sits  proudly  at  his  post, 

In  wisdom  grand,  in  potency  a  host, 

The  world  regards  with  glance  half  awe,  half  dread, 

'Twixt  doubt  to  deify  or  break  his  head. 

Hid  by  the  shadow  of  the  pronoun  WE, 

Old  Tonans  thunders  in  epitome; 

The  lightning  glares,  in  sheets  inspiring,  fear,  — 

Paid  in  advance  —  so  many  dimes  per  year  ; 

His  eagles  scream  athwart  the  stormy  sky, 

And  echo  answers,  u  How  is  that  for  high?" 

Echo,  a  little  slangy,  but  repeats 

That  which  the  eye  upon  occasion  meets, 

When,  bending  for  a  moment  from  his  state, 

The  editor  forgets  that  he  is  great, 

And,  with  a  playfulness  of  tongue  or  pen, 

Speaks,  writes,  or  acts  the  same  as  common  men. 

The  one  by  guilty  qualmishness  possessed, 

Feels  in  his  peril  anything  but  blest ; 

Fraud  with  its  gains  indifference  affects, 

But  winces  inward,  and  with  dread  expects  ; 

"  Truth  crushed  to  earth  "  and  virtue  in  distress 


74  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Have  vindication  in  the  honest  press  ; 

And  all  grand  effort  made  the  world  to  advance, 

Finds  in  its  editor  a  trenchant  lance. 

Such  is  the  fact  which  ideally  we  see, 

But  still  imperfect  is  the  verity. 

Exceptions  mar  the  grandeur  of  the  rule, 

For  men  are  weak,  and  Virtue's  fires  may  cool ; 

Pretentious  mediocrity  have  sway, 

And  principle  be  measured  as  'twill  pay  ; 

Humbug  and  wealth,  allied,  successful  plead, 

And  impecunious  virtue  yield  to  need. 

Alas!  'tis  true  —  and  pity  'tis  'tis  true  — 

That  want  besets  the  path  that  men  pursue  ; 

And  being  merely  men,  the  truth  is  plain, 

They  cannot  bear  a  superhuman  strain. 

Rare  principle  alone,  is  not  enough 

To  meet  the  claim  of  life  with  fortune  rough, 

Of  fashion  and  its  myriad  demands, 

Which  more  it  craves,  the  more  its  scope  expands, 

And,  therefore,  yielding  to  the  pressure  stout, 

They  put  up  shutters  and  bar  conscience  out. 

Of  all  vocations  'neath  the  rolling  sun, 
Than  this  of  ours  there  is  no  nobler  one, 
And  more  than  King  or  Kaiser  can  impart 
Is  the  proud  title  springing  from  our  art. 
To  be  a  PRINTER  wins  a  grander  fame 
Than  is  permitted  more  presumptuous  claim, 
And  those  who  leave  the  name  for  other  spheres, 
Resume  it  proudly  in  their  after  years ; 


THE  PRESS.  75 

A  fame  wherein  a  FRANKLIN'S  glory  lies, 
And  tenderly  a  GREELEY  sanctifies. 

Then,  Brethren,  Friends,  stand  proudly  by  the  Press, 

Fraught  with  such  power  to  benefit  and  bless  ! 

The  people's  guard  and  guide,  fail  not  to  see 

The  full  importance  of  your  ministry. 

Though  virtue  be  at  times  its  own  reward, 

Work  on  in  hope,  nor  rail  at  fortune  hard. 

Some  seeds  grow  slowly,  and  the  harvest,  late, 

May  toil  and  trial  poorly  compensate, 

But,  with  a  conscience  clear  and  motive  just, 

Press  on  and  ever  with  unfaltering  trust, 

—  Not  the  vexed  trust  the  printer  frowns  upon, 

That  he  would  banish  from  the  lexicon, — 

Trust  that  kind  Heaven,  beneficent  and  good, 

May  crown  your  efforts  with  beatitude, 

And  bring  to  fruitage  all  the  seed  you've  strewed. 


76  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE   PREUX   CHEVALIER.* 

'TwAS  in  a  vision  of  the  night, 

That  centuries  of  years  passed  o'er  me, 

And,  in  a  blaze  of  sudden  light, 

Old  Jacques  De  Molay  stood  before  me.  . 

I  knew  him  by  his  presence  grand  — 
Armed  cap  a  pie,  all  iron  plated, 

A  sort  of  monitor  on  land, 

On  whom  a  thousand  forces  waited. 

I  nodded  in  familiar  style  ; 

He  smiled,  his  courtesy  to  show  me  ; 
Then  took  a  vacant  chair,  the  while, 

And  said,  "My  boy,  I  see  you  know  me." 

"Know  you  !  who  don't?    We  look  with  pride 
On  what  you  did  for  our  profession  : 

You  fought  and  suffered,  bled  and  died, 
And  roasted  —  for  its  truths'  possession." 

*  Read  before  Winslow  Lewis  Commandery,  Salem,  Mass.,  General  William 
Sutton,  E.  C. 


THE  PREUX  CHEVALIER.  77 

"  Nuff  sed  !  "  cried  he  ;  "  'twas  long  ago  ; 

I'd  quite  forgot  the  smart  of  frying ; 
'Tis  lucky  you  don't  have  to  show 

Such  tests,  through  such  an  ordeal  trying. 

"  The  stake,  I  fear,  would  make  you  quail "  — 
"  Not  it,"  said  I,  "  if  Nannie  broils  it, 

Done  to  a  turn  "  —  Molay  turned  pale  ; 

"  Done  ! "  murmured  he  ;  "  your  punning 
spoils  it. 

"  Now  pray  be  quiet  while  I  state 
The  object  of  my  coming  hither ; 

However  good  a  single  pate, 

I  wish  to  put  our  heads  together. 

a  Sir  Launfal  sought  the  holy  grail, 

And  found  it  in  poetic  vision  ; 
In  such  direction  /should  fail  — 

I  seek  a  practical  decision. 

"  I  wish  your  aid  the  way  to  clear, 
All  intervening  clouds  to  scatter  ; 

I  seek  the  one  '  PREUX  CHEVALIER,' 

And  that,  you  see,  is  '  what's  the  matter  ; ' 

"  For  'mong  the  knights  of  these  late  days, 
Are  glorious  boys,  there's  no  denying, 

And  who  shall  wear  the  crowning  bays 
Becomes  a  question  nice  and  trying." 


78  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

"  "Pis  hard  to  choose  from  such  a  crowd," 
I  said,  "  of  knights  brave  to  the  letter, 

But  'tis  a  proverb  long  allowed, — 
For  every  best  there  is  a  better. 

• 

"  And  should  you  trust  the  knights  to  say 
Who  was  the  best,  I  wage  a  button, 

That  every  one  would  vote  straightway 
To  give  the  palm  to  W******  S*****." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  said  De  Molay,  "  you're  right ; 

I've  marked  his  course  with  satisfaction ; 
No  truer  gentleman  or  knight 

Coins  principle  to  use  or  action. 

"  His  cheerful  face  his  heart  betrays ; 

His  generous  hand  is  ever  sowing 
Those  seeds  that  in  the  sun's  warm  rays 

Are  into  loving  fullness  growing. 

"His  praise  is  spoke  by  every  lip, 

No  voice  was  ever  raised  to  doubt  him, 

And,  for  all  grand,  good  fellowship, 

There's  not  a  streak  that's  mean  about  him. 

"  I've  seen  him  on  the  tented  field, 

Where  Winter  Island  dints  the  ocean, 
4  Where  veterans  in  their  marches  wheeled 
In  all  the  poetry  of  motion. 


THE  PREUX  CHEVALIER.  79 

"  I've  marked  his  eye  in  frenzy  roll, 

As  War's  fierce  pageant  moved  before  him, 

And  seen  the  ardor  of  his  soul 

Blaze  in  the  manner  that  he  bore  him. 


"  Upon  the  hill  his  marque  stood, 

And  there,  when  ceased  the  stern  contention, 
His  social  spirits,  like  a  flood, 

Beamed  forth,  too  numerous  to  mention. 

"  There  flashing  wit  to  popping  corks 
Gave  quick  response  'mid  glasses'  rattle, 

And  charging  lines  of  knives  and  forks 
Bore  note  of  epicurean  battle  ; 

"  Yet  still,  as  round  him  raged  the  strife 

Of  gastronomic  wild  invasion, 
Reliant  on  his  carving-knife 

He  met,  in  full,  the  4  great  occasion.' 

"  Full  well  the  golden  gift  he  showed 
That  you  at  times  enjoy,  his  brothers,  — 

The  art,  most  lavishly  bestowed, 
Of  giving  happiness  to  others. 

"And  I've  partaken  of  his  cheer, 
In  ghostly  presence  never  noted, 

And  know  that  none  in  either  sphere 
Was  more  to  generous  deeds  devoted. 


8o  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

"  In  later  days,  when  fearful  strife 
The  nation's  very  being  threated, 

And  parricidal  hands  the  knife 

With  murderous  intention  whetted,  — 

"  He  gave  his  means,  with  ready  hand, 
The  flag  to  save,  its  stars  unriven ; 

He  cheered  the  saviors  of  the  land, 

He  honored  those  who'd  bravely  striven. 

"  He  is,  in  truth,  '  Preux  Chevalier/ 
—  I  needn't  make  a  further  trial, — 

And  I've  a  radiant  jewel  here 

That  you  must  bear  him  —  no  denial. 

"  I  can't  do  it  myself,  you  know, 
For  I  should  be  a  ghostly  donor  ; 

You  must  the  gift  of  love  bestow, 

And  Palestine  be  guard  of  honor." 

I  saw  the  gift  —  a  sparkling  sun, 

With  brilliants  dight  of  purest  water, 

As  big  as  pullet  eggs  each  one, 

And  weighing  at  the  least  a  quarter. 

My  hand  I  held  to  take  the  prize, 

When  some  confounded  thing  or  other 

Brought  consciousness  unto  my  eyes, 
And  out  stepped  our  illustrious  brother. 


THE  PREUX  CHEVALIER.  8 1 

Yet  still  enough  remained  behind 

On  which  to  hinge  a  little  story, 
And  I'm,  with  all  my  heart,  inclined 

In  the  dreamed  Templar's  choice  to  glory, — 

Adopt  his  praise,  though  wide  awake, 

—  A  dream  more  true  was  never  broken, — 

And  for  my  beau  ideal  take 

Him  who  deserves  the  Templar's  token. 

But.  'stead  of  jewelled  gift,  we  bring 
One  of  still  more  refined  selection, 

—  A  rare  and  radiant  offering,  — 

Our  hearts'  warm,  unreserved  affection. 

This  is  no  dream —  it  conscious  dwells, 

Of  self  a  part,  to  alter  never : 
And  he  shall  be,  while  feeling  wells, 

Our  own  "Preux  Chevalier"  forever. 
6 


82  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


ROBERT  BURNS.* 

MY  Musie,  at  your  invitation, 
Pricked  up  her  ears  with  animation, 
At  thought  of  joining  the  oblation 

For  genius  fled, 
And  shed  a  new  illumination 

Round  Burns's  head. 

Ah  !  rich  the  thoughts  upon  me  stealing, 
At  this  reflective  hour's  unsealing  ! 
His  name  has  wakened  trains  of  feeling 

That  fire  my  soul, 
The  necromancy  true,  revealing, 

Of  his  control. 

So  sweet,  so  sacred,  and  so  glowing, 
The  tide  of  his  warm  genius  flowing ! 
The  flowers  beside  its  brink  upgrowing 

In  beauteous  art, 
And  the  exhaustless  compass  showing 

Of  every  heart. 

*  Read  at  Lawrence,  Mass.,  1874. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  83 

The  gamut  of  our  common  being 
His  hand  has  struck,  its  music  freeing, 
And,  joy  or  sorrow's  cadence  keying, 

The  world  has  blest, 
And  shadows  from  the  spirit  fleeing, 

His  power  confest. 

Where  heart  to  heart  beats  true  and  tender, 
Where  Nature  smiles  in  richest  splendor, 
Where  men  to  justice  tribute  render, 

Where  mirth  is  stirred, 
Wrhere  virtue  calls  for  a  defender, 

His  tones  are  heard. 

But  sharp  their  note  when  fraud  or  lying 

Against  humanity  are  trying! 

With  more  than  scorpion  venom  vying, 

His  satire  thrust 
Pricks  dark  Hypocrisy  to  dying 

In  vilest  dust. 

His  heart  alive  to  calls  of  pity, 

His  vivid  mind  of  temper  witty, 

His  pluck  in  fortune's  struggles  gritty, 

His  course  he  ran  ; 
A  stalwart  type,  in  town  or  city, 

Of  regal  MAN. 

Not  perfect ;  ah  !  the  lad  was  failing  ; 
Temptation  every  side  assailing, 


84  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Poor  Virtue  ofttimes  unavailing 

Made  weak  acclaim  ; 
But  let  each  tongue  desist  from  railing  — 

We're  much  the  same. 


They  may  reproach  whose  dull  blood  never 
Has  rushed  tumultuous  as  a  river, 
Who  ne'er  have  felt  the  burning  fever 

Of  Passion  glow, 
But  kept  'twixt  tranquil  banks  forever, 

As  cold  as  snow. 


But  when  the  heart  is  warm  and  human, 
With  latent  fires  that  threat  consuming 
That  glows  with  love  for  man  or  woman, 

And  limit  spurns, 
Sweet  sympathetic  beams  illumine 

The  name  of  Burns. 

O  !  rather  his  proud  scoriae  nature, 
That  lit  with  life  each  noble  feature, 
And  warmed  to  every  fellow-creature, 

Than  those  dull  souls 
Which  coldly  dwarf  themselves  in  stature, 

Where  self  controls. 


But  time  gives  us  assurance  cheering 
That  ill  in  shadow  disappearing, 


ROBERT  BURNS.  85 

Leaves  all  the  good  that  was  inhering 

In  grandest  light, 
For  our  approval  and  revering 

This  natal  night. 

And  here  in  votive  love  combining, 
We  meet,  our  myrtle  wreaths  entwining, 
To  deck  his  brow  with  lustre  shining 

For  aye  undimmed ! 
Whose  worth  in  measure  undeclining 

Will  e'er  be  hymned. 


86  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


PRESS  AND   PRESS-PEOPLE.* 

WE  prize  our  venerable  Art, 

Our  fondly  cherished  Alma  Mater; 
With  discipline  she  tried  our  heart, 

And  taught  us  thus  to  venerate  her. 

She  strove  to  rouse  ambition  up, 

To  grasp  at  affluence  of  knowledge  ; 

She  proffered  draughts  from  Wisdom's  cup, 
That  was  not  filled  at  school  or  collee. 


She  pointed,  through  a  thousand  doors, 

To  fields  of  intellectual  clover  ; 
She  led  where  mighty  Learning's  stores 

Awaited  for  the  hungry  rover. 

Howe'er  the  butt  of  fortune's  spite, 
—  Whatever  be  his  lot  or  station,  — 

The  printer  takes  the  highest  flight 
Of  sublunary  aspiration. 

*  From  the  Fiftictli  Anniversary  Poem  before  the  Boston  Franklin  Typo 
graphical  Society,  January  19,  1874. 


PfiESS  AND  PRESS-PEOPLE.  87 

And  more  in  these,  our  modern  days, 
His  mind  aspires  —  we  cannot  doubt  it; 

His  office  draws  his  upward  gaze, 
There  is  so  much  up  stairs  about  it. 

An  alchemist  of  loftiest  ken, 

By  day  and  night  his  head  he  bothers, 
And,  patient  as  a  setting  hen, 

He  sets  in  lead  the  thoughts  of  others. 

Though  some  maliciously  might  hint 
That  that  was  hardly  transmutation  — 

Scarce  different  the  thoughts  in  print 
From  the  original  formation. 

How  multifarious  the  range 

Of  his  seven-staired  exalted  mission  ! 

Weaving  that  web  so  grand  and  strange, 
The  world's  news  for  the  next  edition  : 

Here  grasping  philosophic  lore, 

Here  by  Parnassian  airs  surrounded, 

Here  where  Commercial  gems  outpour, 
Here  where  by  legal  fogs  confounded  ; 

Here  where  mercurial  Stocks  obtain, 

Where  Science  towards  the  light  is  groping ; 

Here  where  Romance  gives  blissful  pain, 
Where  Truth  and  Falsity  are  coping ; 


88  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Where  Politics  make  specious  claim, 

Where  Honor  takes  the  votive  myrtle,  — 

He  picks  away  with  steady  aim, 

His  scope  betwixt  the  "stick"  and  "  turtle." 

And  though  he  plunge  not  to  the  mine 

Where  Thought's  bright  jewels  lie  imbedded, 

Some  grains  upon  his  garments  shine, 
The  plainer  seen  if  thought  is  leaded. 

And  proud  are  we  of  those  who've  sprung 
Above  the  dull  and  common  level ; 

Who,  giants,  walk  our  ways  among, 
And  boast  of  lineage  from  the  devil. 

I  mean  the  printer's  imp,  of  course  — 

And  those  who  rose  from  small  beginning, 

Who  mark  the  time  by  merit's  force, 
Continued  approbation  winning. 

There  are  who  with  us  kindred  claim, 
Who  knew  not  advent  typographic, 

But  who  win  affluence  and  fame 
By  its  control  in  lore  or  traffic. 

The  preacher  may  essay  in  vain, 
By  study  o'er  the  midnight  taper, 

His  immortality  to  gain, 

Without  assistance  from  the  paper. 


PKESS  AND  PRESS-PEOPLE.  89 

The  savant,  jurist,  poet,  were 

But  delvers  in  a  sphere  neglected, 

Without  the  typo's  timely  care 

To  make  their  betterness  respected. 

And  lecturers  most  grateful  feel 

—  The  rostrum's  pleasant  boards  adorning  — 
Where  all  their  thoughts  reporters  steal, 

And  spread  them  broadcast  in  the  morning. 

Out  from  our  Mater's  sturdy  breast, 

In  proper  season's  culmination, 
A  thought  in  generous  kindness  dressed, 

Became  our  loved  Association. 

Benevolence  its  aim  and  scope, 

With  mutual  benefit  its  basis, 
It  took  a  place  of  trust  and  hope, 

And  cheered  the  gloom  of  darkened  places. 

'Twas  but  a  little  seed  at  first, 

By  loving  faith  unceasing  tended  ; 

But  by  the  dews  of  heaven  'twas  nursed, 
And  into  magnitude  ascended. 

Until,  at  fifty  honored  years, 

It  calls  us  to  its  festal  cheering, 
With  all  of  memory  that  endears, 

With  all  the  worth  that  is  endearing. 


90  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


AN   OLD   TEA-PARTY.* 

IN  seventeen  hundred  seventy-three, 
A  hundred  years  ago  to-day, 

A  mighty  party  met  at  tea 

In  good  old  Boston,  o'er  the  way. 

'Twas  no  hilarious,  jocund  crowd, 

Lit  up  by  faces  of  the  fair, 
But  each  one  seemed  beneath  a  cloud, 

And  wore  a  most  determined  air. 

Within  the  Old  South  Church  was  held 
This  solemn  party  quaint  and  stern, 

And  all  the  members  seemed  impelled 
By  feelings  hostile  to  the  urn ! 

No  choiring  melodists  outpoured 
Upon  the  wintry  air  their  tunes, 

As  solemnly  the  patriots  stirred, — 
Though  very  far  from  being  *'  spoons. 

What  was  the  matter  with  the  tea? 
Could  it  not  be  the  genuine  hong? 

*  Read  at  Chelsea,  December  17,  1873. 


AN    OLD    TEA-PAR TT.  91 

Was  it  not  steeped  sufficiently? 
Or  was  it  cooked  a  bit  too  strong? 

Out  then  bespoke  the  patriots  tried, 
—  Not  tried  by  fagot  or  by  law,  — 

"  Though  we  have  all  his  tea  denied, 

King  George  will  pour  it  down  our  maw  ; 

u  For  here  a  cargo  bides  to-day. 

That  we  must  suffer  to  remain  ; 
The  duty  isn't  much  to  pay, 

But  paying  were  a  deadly  stain. 

"  Now  say,  what  is  it  we  must  do 

To  clear  the  irritation  out?" 
Just  then  a  painted  Indian  crew 

Passed  by  the  church  with  fearful  shout. 

Undoubted  Mohawks,  every  soul ; 

But,  strange  that  Indians  thus  should  choose  ! 
Small-clothes  beneath  their  blankets  stole, 

And  some  wrore  buckles  in  their  shoes. 

And  then  the  party  straightway  broke, 
And  followed  on  behind  the  "  braves  " 

To  where  the  ship  of  which  they'd  spoke 
Sat  silently  upon  the  waves. 

No  word  was  said,  and  ere  the  crew 
Or  owners  had  a  chance  to  think, 

The  hatches  from  their  fastenings  broke, 
And  all  the  tea  was  in  the  "  drink." 


92  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Over  the  side  the  chests  outpoured 
Their  Souchong,  Hyson,  and  Bohea, 

And  not  a  pound  remained  on  board 
For  after  hospitality. 

Then  such  a  shout  as  rent  the  skies ! 

Which,  had  King  Georgius  only  heard, 
It  might  have  made  him  act  more  wise, 

Than  in  the  after-time  occurred. 

Later,  when  gallant  Peter  Gore, 

His  lady-love's  bright  smile  did  seek, 

The  kiss  he  gave  her  at  the  door 

Transferred  some  war-paint  to  her  cheek ; 

Which,  by  next  morning's  light  descried, 
Made  her  heart  beat  a  glad  refrain  ; 

And  then  she  almost  vowed,  with  pride, 
She'd  never  wash  her  face  again  ! 

More  than  a  jewel's  sheen,  she  thought, 
That  spot  in  other  time  would  bear ; 

To  have  it  with  her  blushes  wrought 
Would  make  her  beauty  doubly  fair. 

Now,  this  is  why  we're  here  to-night, 
With  all  that  heart  of  man  can  crave, 

With  tea  in  plenty,  faces  bright, 

And  everything  that's  fair  and  brave: 


AN  OLD    TEA-PAR  TT.  93 

The  frigid  gathering  of  old, 

Which  ended  in  that  serious  fuss, 
Was  fraught  with  blessings  manifold, 

That  should  be  duly  felt  by  us. 

Though  acrid  was  the  cup  they  brewed, 

In  Boston  Bay's  extensive  dish, 
A  cup  of  tea  from  it  ensued 

Just  suited  to  all  patriot  wish. 

It  fired  the  hearts  of  Freedom's  sons, 
It  strengthened  hope's  relaxing  powers, 

It  gave  more  potency  to  guns, 

It  promise  lent  to  darkened  hours. 

This  cup  of  tea  its  force  still  shows  : 
It  late  inspired  each  Northern  breast, 

And  told  in  triumph  o'er  the  foes 
Who  strove  the  Union  to  molest ; 

And  as  wre  drink  it,  and  are  wise. 

Shall  we  the  priceless  guerdon  gain 
That  e'er  a  nation  glorifies 

Whose  honor  is  without  a  stain. 

This  cup,  that  each  partaker  cheers, 
—  A  grander  man  may  never  see,  — 

Exalts,  inspires,  delights,  endears  : 
It  is  the  cup  of —  LIBERTY  ! 


94  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


A   HUNDRED  YEARS   AGO.* 

VAIN  is  thy  hope,  presumptuous  Muse,  to  make 
the  mad  essay 

To  add  unto  the  joyousness  that  clusters  round  to 
day ! 

I  have  no  words  of  eloquence  like  his  who  spoke 
before, 

But  just  a  reel  of  rambling  rhymes  to  read  you, — 
nothing  more,  — 

In  which  I'll  try  to  tell  for  you,  if  you'll  indulge 
me  so, 

Much  that  they  did  and  didn't  do  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

I've  had  a  spirit  message  come,  rapped  out  in  sturdy 

raps, 
From  those  who  years  have  vanished,  but  who  still 

are  on  their  taps, 
And  it  gives  a  pleasant  history  of  things  long  passed 

away, 
Brought  by  my  grave  communicants  once  more  to 

light  of  day, 

*  A  Poem,  following  an  Address  by  Rev.  Andrew  P.  Peabody.  D.  D.,  at 
the  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  establishment  of  the  Press  in  New  Hamp 
shire.  Portsmouth,  October  6,  1856. 


A  HUNDRED    TEARS  AGO.  95 

Who've  anxious  seemed,  although  removed,  to  let 

the  people  know 
Just  how  they  managed  things  down  here  a  hundred 

years  ago. 

Then  these  were  warlike  scenes  and  times — militia 
men  were  drawn 

To  march  with  Pepperell,  the  knight,  and  Colonel 
William  Vaughan  ; 

And  tales  of  their  brave  deeds  did  long  by  firesides 
have  renown, 

Where  bold  Sir  William,  he  and  Vaughan,  to  Cha- 
peaurouge  went  down, 

And  let  the  French  and  Indians  learn  that  Yankees 
were  not  slow 

In  fighting  for  the  cross  and  crown  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

Then  there  were  Colonel  Atkinson  and  Colonel  Nat. 
Meserve, 

Two  fire-eating  sons  of  guns  of  most  undoubted 
nerve, 

Who  led  the  brave  New  Hampshire  men  by  forest 
and  by  sea, 

To  drive  forth  from  their  fastnesses  the  savage 
enemy, 

—  For  the  "  heathen  round  about"  were  strong,  and 
I  meant  the  people  woe,  — 

But  Christian  prayers,  and  swords,  prevailed  a  hun 
dred  years  ago. 


96  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

But  in  the   midst  of  war's  alarms  a  peaceful  note 

befell ; 
It  was  the  note  from  yonder  clock  that  first  struck 

yonder  bell ! 
Squire  Daniel  Pierce,  the  donor,  determined  by  its 

chime 
To  hint  to  folk,  on  Life's  dull  march,  the  need  of 

marking  time  ; 
The  town  received  the  timely  gift,  which  struck  its 

primal  blow 
The   twenty-fifth    of   March,    about   one    hundred 

years  ago. 

Then  Mr.  Peter  Livius,  by  granting  of  the  town, 
Dammed  up  the  creek  called  Islington,  and  laid  the 

draw-bridge  down, 
Connecting  worldly  Strawberry  Bank  with  peaceful 

Christian  Shore, 
And  building  mills  that  we  recall  in  dusty  days  of 

yore ; 
Also  the  broad  tide  gates  that  swung  to  check  the 

water's  flow ; 
A  marvel  of  philosophy  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Then  elemental  warfare   dire  in  heaven  and   earth 

awaked, 
The   fires  descended   from  above,  the  ground  with 

terror  quaked  ; 
The  people  all  were  much  appalled,  their  hearts  with 

fear  did  fail, 


A   HUNDRED    TEARS  AGO.  97 

And  then  they  bought  a  fire-engine  —  then  they  built 

a  jail !  — 
The  relevancy  do  not  ask  —  it  matters  not  to 

know  — 
But  things  were  mixed  up  terribly  a  hundred  years 

ago. 

Then   lotteries  were  recognized,  and  none  rebuked 

the  scheme 
To    buy   a    library  of  books    by  what  we    wicked 

deem ; 
The  town  a  hundred  tickets  took,  the  proceeds  to 

inure 
To    help    erect  a  tenement  in   which  to  keep   the 

poor ; 
But  if  they  blanks  or  prizes  drew,  the  record  does 

not  show  — 
Perhaps  the  fathers  were  in  luck  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Then  the  gallows  was  resorted  to  in  settling  mor 
tal  ill, 

And  Dow,  of  Hampton  Falls,  was  hanged,  who 
Peter  Clough  did  kill. 

Ah,  sadly  did  he  expiate  that  grievous  public 
wound  — 

For  every  grain  of  that  he  did  they  hanged  him  by 
the  Pound ! 

Of  course  I  mean  the  cattle-pound  —  up  here  a  mile 
or  so, 

Where  the  stray  "critters"  all  were  put,  a  hundred 
years  ago. 

7 


98  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Our    sires  were  loyal   to  the  king,   and   caps  were 

wildly  swung 
When,    British    arms    triumphant,   'twas    told    glad 

crowds  among, 
And  when  Quebec  was  captured,  the  guns  and  bells 

proclaimed 
The  joy,   and   fires  on    Windmill   Hill   in   cheerful 

brightness  flamed  ; 
Processions  moved  about  the  streets,  and  punch  in 

streams  did  flow  !  — 
Ah  !   those  were  rum   old  times  indeed  a  hundred 

years  ago. 

Then  Portsmouth  girls  were  just  as  fair  as  those  that 
greet  us  now  — 

A  Strawberry  Bank  pre-eminence,  that  all  did  e'er 
allow  ; 

Coquetry  then  was  rarely  known  and  found  but  sel 
dom  dupes, 

And  dress  was  rather  limited  in  magnitude  of 
hoops, 

But  graces  unadorned  combined  to  win  them  many 
a  beau 

(As  now  desired  by  them  all)  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

And   then  the  earnest  thinking  men  began  to  feel 

their  night, 
They  had  no  sunshine  of  their  own,  but  moved  by 

borrowed  light ; 


A   HUNDRED    TEARS  AGO.  99 

They  wished  intelligence  to  spread,  New  Hampshire 

wilds  to  bless, 
And  Heaven,  to  cheer  their  darkness,  lent  their  need 

fa  printing  press  ; 
The  old  Gazette,  time-honored  name,  then  broke  the 

shell,  we  know, 
A    sturdy   chicken,   hatched   by  Fowle,   a   hundred 

years  ago. 

And  how  the  people  wondered  when  first  the  sheet 

appeared  ! 
It  was   the   greatest  miracle  that  e'er  their  vision 

cheered  ; 
They  thought  its  words  of  wisdom  than  Solomon's 

more  wise, 
And   Daniel   Fowle   no  vulgar   fowl,   but  Bird   of 

Paradise  ; 
And  deemed  the  ancient  pressman,  Prime  (a  negro 

black  as  sloe), 
More  than  a  common  colored  man  a  hundred  years 

ago. 

'Twas  no  broad  acre  that  of  news,  for  mails  were 

scarcely  known  ; 
They  subject  were  to  obstacles,  as  well  as  to   the 

crown ; 
The  post  came  through  but  once  a  week,  and  scarcely 

brought  a  word 
That  might  the  pulse  of  man  or  mouse  in  our  late 

day  have  stirred ; 


100         LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Though  this  perhaps  was  fast  enough  when  every 
thing  was  slow, 

As  we  may  well  suppose  it  was  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

And  when  in  Boston  there  prevailed  a  fatal  pesti 
lence, 

And  careful  Portsmouth  selectmen  conceived  a  safety 
fence 

Across  Great  Swamp,  to  head  the  plague  and  keep 
it  from  the  town, 

And  smoked  the  mails  (and  females  too)  before 
they'd  let  them  down,  — 

We've  wondered  how  the  editor  contrived  to  make 
a  show, 

For  local  news  was  very  scarce  a  hundred  years  ago. 

But  patrons  were  more  patient  then,  and  did  not 

make  to-do  ; 

Excuses  they  admitted  and  regarded  them  as  true  ; 
They  read  the  little  they  obtained,  each  word  upon 

the  page, 
Till  bold  John  Stavers,  four-in-hand,  appeared  upon 

the  stage ; 
And  then  the  mails  more  steady  grew,  as  he  drove 

to  and  fro 
The  first  stage  in  America  a  hundred  years  ago. 

There  came  no  quick  electric  spark  along  a  path  of 

wire, 
To  give  the  people  notes  from  far,  of  good  news  or 

of  dire  ; 


?£  AGb.  161 


A   HUNDRED    TEARS 

Elections  then  were  never  known,  except  that  Calvin 

taught, 
And,  save  the   South   and    old   North   Church,  the 

South  and  North  were  nought ; 
Kansas  was  not  created  yet,  so  far  as  they  could 

know 
Who  printed  off  the  old  Gazette  a  hundred  years 

ago. 

Then  poetry  ne'er  blazed  in  verse,  and  sentiment 
was  rare, 

The  editor,  in  language  terse,  spoke  at  his  subject 
square ; 

No  drops  e'er  fell  upon  the  page  from  eyes  with  sor 
row  wet ; 

No  laughter  sprang  from  printed  fun  in  rich  harmo 
nious  jet ; 

The  people  were  averse  to  verse,  —  cared  more  for 
use  than  show.  — 

They  had  no  music  in  their  souls  a  hundred  years 
ago. 

No  fashion  plates  bewitched  the  maids,  in  homespun 

glories  clad, 
No  flaming  advertisements  told  where  luxuries  could 

be  had, 
No  selling  out  at  less  than  cost,  no  bankrupt  stocks 

of  goods, 
No    damaged    articles    late    wet    in    some    fictitious 

floods, 


102         LINES  TN   PLEASANT   PLACES. 

No  lure  held  out  to  hide  the  trap  that  lay  concealed 

below, 
For   humbug   wasn't   understood    a    hundred   years 

ago. 

Then  careful  ships  three  times  a  year  brought  tidings 

from  beyond 
The  dark  and  stormy  waters  of  the  mighty  "  herring 

pond," 
Giving"  the  news  of  other  climes,  their  markets  and 

their  fights, 
Telling  of  continental  scenes,  their  wrongs  and  eke 

their  rights, 
Telling  of  London,  and  the  King,  and  Parliament 

also  — 
Our  sires   rejoiced   in   things  like   these  a  hundred 

years  ago. 

People  contented  were,   and   still,  and  plodded  on 

their  way, 
Scarce  ever  looking  from  the  town  until  their  dying 

clay ; 
And  when  they  shuffled  off  the  coil,  they  didn't  leave 

their  ground, 
But   even   now,   as   we   have    shown,  they  yet    arc 

knocking  round  ; 
As  was  their  light  they  faithful  walked,  and  did  their 

work  below, 
And  "  Slow  and  sure  "  their  motto  was  a  hundred 

years  ago. 


A   HUNDRED    TEARS  AGO.  103 

The  raps  here  ceased ;  I  asked  for  more,  but  only 

this  could  hear : 
"  Compare  your  present  with  the  past  and  see  how 

you  appear; 
See  if  your  light  has  been  bestowed  the  public  mind 

to  guide, 
Or  if  a  Jack-o'lantern,  mere,  to  dump  men   in  the 

tide; 
And  if  you  would  be  profited  by  what  we  hereby 

show, 
Try  to   be  honest  as   they  were   a    hundred   years 

ago." 


104  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


AQUEOUS    INSPIRATION.* 

HERE  met  at  meat,  as  meet  it  surely  is, 
To  crown  the  day  with  festive  gratulation, 

There's  gladness  beaming  from  each  open  phiz, 
And  every  voice  gives  note  of  exultation. 

Those  smile  who  win,  and  we  a  prize  have  won  — 
Fortune  has  favored  us  who  rightly  sought  her ; 

Her  blessing  comes  upon  us  by  the  run, 
Like  emigrants  from  Ireland,  by  water. 

It  comes  to  us  as  did  the  crystal  stream, 

When  Moses  struck  the  rock  to  squelch  the 
doubters, 

Dispelling  every  dubitative  dream, 

And  proving  the  most  eloquent  of  spouters. 

And  as  that  stream  poured  o'er  the  land  of  Sin, 
A  health-imparting,  Jew-reviving  river, 

So,  sinners,  we  the  comer  welcome  in, 

And  bless  the  gift,  and  praise  the  bounteous  Giver. 

*  Read  at  the  Celebration  of  the  Introduction  of  Water  into  Chelsea,  No 
vember  23,  1867. 


AQUEOUS  INSPIRATION.  105 

Our  Horeb,  though  remote,  yet  at  the  nod 
Of  public  will,  the  water  here  discloses, 

And  each  committee-man  has  plied  his  rod, 
And  every  one  has  proved  himself  a  Moses. 

A  modern  miracle  is  theirs,  I  ween 

—  Howe'er  regarded,  it  is  nothing  shorter  — 

For  they  have  with  a  necromancy  keen 

Tapped  us  "  Old  Medford  "  and  produced  pure 
water. 


A  paradox  in  this  event  I  claim, 

Worthy  of  philosophical  inquiring: 

How  water,  used  to  subjugate  a  flame, 
Should  thus  and  here  each  Chelsea  heart  be 
fir  i  n  g ! 

And  every  one  has  water  on  the  brain  — 
A  hydrocephalus  of  subtlest  action  ; 

But  here  comes  in  a  paradox  again  : 

'Tis  hard  to  bear,  —  but,  water  satisfaction  ! 

We  give  our  tribute  to  this  marriage  day 

—  May  not  a  thought  offensive  come  to  dim  it ! 

When  the  fair  Mystic  gives  herself  away, 
In  nuptial  bonds  to  gallant  Winnisirnmet. 

And  here  about  the  festal  board  we  meet 
To  taste  the  customary  fixings  bridal, 

To  wash  them  down  with  crystal  water  sweet, 
And  pledge  the  knot  just  tied  in  fluid  tidal. 


io6          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

No  airs  convivial  are  these  we  breathe  — 
Fraught  with  the  odor  of  inebriation  ; 

No  toddy  blossoms  round  our  glasses  wreathe, 
And  not  a  nose  gives  vinous  indication. 

Up  to  the  brim  we  fill  our  "  flowing  bowls," 
But  heeding  wise  old  Solomon's  injunction, 

We'll  not  in  lengthy  draughts  eclipse  our  souls, 
Nor  mar  our  pedal's  locomotive  functions. 

This  is  a  drink  that  ne'er  intoxicates  — 

At  least,  those  say  so,  who  have  always  tried  it ; 

A  little  of  it  somehow  satiates, 

When  folks  have  nothing  else  to  drink  beside  it. 


'Tis  said  by  some  one  who  has  doubtless  tried, 
And  drank  the  fluid  with  the  greatest  profit, 

That  though  one  quaff  with  thirst  intensified, 
There's  not  a  headache  in  a  hogshead  of  it. 

Ah,  what  a  living  joy  this  day  awakes ! 

And  woman  stands  enfranchised  and  elated  ; 
No  more  forever  called  to  man  the  brakes, 

To  which,  by  destiny,  she  has  been  fated. 

The  "NORMAN*  conquest"  makes  her  free  indeed 
She  sees  the  crown  of  all  her  earthly  wishes  ; 

To  bathe  in  tumblers  there's  no  longer  need, 
Nor  need  of  scant  baptism  of  the  dishes. 

*  Mr.  Geo.  H.  Norman  was  the  constructor. 


AQUEOUS   INSPIRATION.  107 

Forth  to  her  hand  out  pours  the  grateful  stream — - 
Flows  forth  to  make  her  former  toil  diversion  ; 

Changing  the  current  of  her  weary  dream, 

A  convert  now  from  sprinkling  to  immersion  ! 

But  Mr.  Increase  Slow  puts  down  his  cane  — 
A  stout  opponent  of  these  innovations  ; 

u  Let  washerwomen  catch  the  falling  rain  ; 
Our  wells  are  well  enough  for  all  occasions. 

"  And  then  our  streets  are  all  dug  up  and  down, 
And  'neath  our  feet  an  anaconda  bedded, 

Demoralizing  all  our  ways  in  town, 

And  springing  up  a  monster  hydrant-headed. 

"  Talk  of  your  water's  sanitary  wealth  ! 

That  men  should  do  this  is  a  thing  surprising: 
A  pump's  the  best  auxiliary  of  health, 

And  keeps  us  ruddy  with  its  exercising ! " 

I  asked  a  big  Milesian,  t'other  day, 

What  grave   he   digged  beneath   our  city  pave 
ment." 
He  leaned  a  bit  upon  his  spade  to  say, 

*'  Of  Fogyism,  sir,  and  shmall  beravement." 

There  is  a  queer  old  fellow  in  our  land  — 

Vox  Populi,  by  name,  and  he's  a  grand  'un  ; 

He  sets  the  Slows  aside  on  every  hand, 

Nor  leaves  'em  scarce  a  single  peg  to  stand  on. 


IOS          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

They  growl  and  fret,  and  fume,  and  prophesy, 
And  make  essay  to  stop  the  ball  in  motion  ; 

When  down  upon  'em  comes  Vox  Populi, 
And  off  they  go  like  straws  upon  the  ocean ; 

Or,  like  some  thistle  that  has  stoutly  tost, 
In  fierce  resistance  to  the  passing  wind, 

Beneath  the  power  of  the  early  FROST, 
It  fades,  nor  leaves  a  single  trace  behind. 

O  Water !  sung  and  praised  in  many  a  line, 
We  hail  thy  pleasant  advent  here  among  us ; 

We  see  thy  presence  in  the  daylight  shine, 

As  beauteous  as  the  thought  that  hope  has  sung  us. 

We  hear  the  music  of  the  Naiad's  laugh 

In  gushing  fount  and  Mystic  (water)  metre, 

We  feel  an  exaltation  as  we  quaff, 

And  than  rare  wine  we  own  its  taste  is  sweeter. 

WTe  give  our  lays,  like  water-fowls,  and  sing, 

In  inspiration  jubilant  or  witty, 
And  all  our  pipes  in  one  accord  will  ring 

In  water's  praise,  and  praise  of  the  committee. 


FIVE-AND-TWENTT  YEARS.  109 


A   RHYME    OF  FIVE-AND-TWENTY   YEARS.* 

"  BY  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill," 

As  cool  as  wintry  airs  can  make, 
We  come,  our  empty  cups  to  fill, 

And  drink,  our  thirstiness  to  slake  — 
Recalling,  as  we  gather  round, 

A  pilgrimage  of  smiles  and  tears, 
To-day's  prosperity  has  crowned, 

The  end  of  five-and-twenty  years. 

Our  hearts  with  love  renewed  beat  high, 

And  yield  responsive  to  the  hour ; 
All  undisturbed  our  evening  sky, 

Beneath  the  influence  of  its  power ; 
Though  cold  the  air,  and  hurtling  snow, 

Without,  the  shivering  flesh  assail, 
Here,  in  the  light  of  long  ago, 

We  bid  defiance  to  the  gale. 

O,  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth,  how  sweet ! 
The  pleasant  song  that  first  ye  sung  — 

*  Twenty-fifth  Anniversary  of  Siloam  Lodge  of  Independent  Order  of  Odd 
Fellows,  February  21,  1867. 


no          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Of  life  with  mirth  and  joy  replete, 
And  flowers  to  cheer  our  path  along ; 

But,  better  far  than  halcyon  hours, 
The  many  trials  that  we  knew, 

Developing  our  better  powers 
In  airs  beneficent  and  true. 

We  are  not  angels  —  this  we've  found  — 

The  merely  human  can  we  claim; 
But  there  is  music  in  the  sound 

That  syllables  a  brother's  name! 
We  love  him  for  his  faults  —  our  own  — 

His  virtue  more  than  ours  appears  ; 
We've  tried  him  by  the  testing-stone 

Of  five-and-twenty  searching  years. 

'Tis  good  for  us  to  pause  a  while, 

And  glance  along  the  course  we've  sped 
At  joys  that  we  recall  to  smile,  — 

To  yield  a  tribute  to  our  dead. 
O,  many  are  the  mounds  revealed, 

Between  the  present  and  the  past, 
Of  those  whose  fate  was  early  sealed, 

And  those  who  later  felt  the  blast ! 

In  tender  trust  they're  treasured  still ; 

And  memory,  with  its  verdant  wreath, 
Imparts  to  us  to-night  a  thrill 

For  those,  the  loved,  who  rest  beneath. 
In  sweetest  peacefulness  they  rest, 

Their  task  achieved,  their  labor  o'er; 


FIVE-AND-TWENTT   TEARS.  Ill 

O,  may  the  wish  inspire  each  breast 
To  meet  them  on  the  shining  shore  ! 

It  is  no  sad  refrain  I  sing  — 

I'll  have  no  faces  long  to-night ; 
Let  the  glad  hours  with  pleasure  wing, 

And  mirth  and  music  give  delight. 
No  troubled  thought  should  enter  here. 

To  mar  the  present's  festive  glow, 
Though  things  unlike  to  those  appear 

Of  five-and-twenty  years  ago. 

Is  that  my  friend  of  early  youth, 

Who  with  me  in  the  race  set  out  — 
His  mouth  without  a  single  tooth, 

His  body  adipose  and  stout? 
And  he.  as  bald  as  any  plate, 

Can  that  be  my  young  friend  of  eld? 
Time's  lightning  sure  has  struck  his  pate, 

And  scorched  off  all  the  wealth  it  held  ! 

And  there  is  one  of  manly  mould, 

Without  a  hair  inclined  to  gray, 
Who  must  be  —  let  me  see  —  how  old  ? 

Full  sixty  years,  if  lie's  a  day. 
How  is  it  he,  with  all  his  years, 

The  ravages  of  Time  defies?  — 
The  while  I  gaze  the  truth  appears  : 

Like  Kirby,  in  the  play,  HE  DYES  ! 

I  knew  a  tender  youngster  then  — 
A  boy  of  unpretending  years, 


H2          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Scarce  venturing  'mid  the  ranks  of  men, 
So  full  of  bashful  ness  and  fears. 

I  see  him  here,  I  think,  to-night, 
A  citizen  of  good  estate, 

With  wife  and  daughters  fresh  and  bright, 
Himself  a  very  heavy  weight. 

And  there  was  one  of  feeble  mould, 

Quite  far  from  strong,  and  slim  and  pale ; 
He  was  so  thin  he  wouldn't  hold  — 

I've  seen  him  try  —  a  glass  of  ale  ! 
I  see  him  days  about  the  town, 

A  portly  man  with  ruddy  face  ; 
"Pis  said  to  Windship's  he'll  go  down, 

And  lift  his  ton  without  grimace. 

And  some  in  homeliness  remain, 

As  on  the  day  we  first  set  out ; 
Old  time  has  tackled  them  in  vain, 

And  little  change  has  brought  about ; 
But  though  thus  forced  to  let  them  go, 

On  better  looking  folks  to  wait, 
Around  their  eyes  the  crows'  feet  show  — 

I  see  a  stooping  in  their  gait. 

Though  barred  our  doors  to  stranger  feet, 
Hymen  our  guardian  has  passed, 

And  spread  his  meshes  strong  and  sweet, 
Binding  us  victims  hard  and  fast. 

Yet  glad  the  bond  that  we  have  known ; 
It  is  the  girdle  of  our  joys, 


FIVE-AND-TWENTY  TEARS.  H3 

Circling  our  hearth-stones  like  a  zone, 

Gemmed  with  a  wealth  of  girls  and  boys. 

Yet  there  are  some,  I'm  grieved  to  say, 

Who  would  not  yield  to  love  the  power, 
But  drifted  in  their  single  way, 

From  then,  down  to  the  present  hour. 
Alone!  ah,  sad  the  word  —  alone! 

To  them  the  future  dark  appears  ; 
But  yet  the  fault  is  all  their  own  — 

A  sin  of  five-and-twenty  years. 

Ah,  gallant  youth  !  ah,  gentle  maids  ! 

A  quarter  century  goes  by  : 
Care  pays  no  great  respect  to  braids ; 

It  dims  the  brightness  of  the  eye  : 
We  see  the  changing  of  the  tress, 

We  see  the  changing  of  the  form, 
But  still  unchanging,  ne'ertheless, 

The  loving  heart  is  true  and  warm  — 

Surviving  all  the  grace  of  earth, 

And  glowing  with  a  warmth  as  true 
As  when,  in  youth's  bright  hour  of  mirth, 

It  gave  itself  to  me  and  you  ! 
And  here,  renewing  and  renewed, 

In  radiant  eyes,  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
We  see  restored  in  plenitude, 

The  mothers  in  their  beauteous  girls. 

Ho  !  brethren  of  the  frosty  pow  ! 
Gone  are  the  raven  locks  of  old, 
8 


H4          SEINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  wrinkles  on  each  manly  brow 
May  now  in  multitudes  be  told. 

But  what  of  that?     The  heart  is  gay, 
Although  the  head  is  changed  to  snow  ; 

We  cannot  keep  it  always  May  — 

The  Autumn  must  succeed,  you  know. 

May  ours  a  garner  prove  of  peace, 

And  Nature's  slow  descending  sun 
Show  that,  as  earthly  hours  decrease, 

A  higher  life  may  have  begun  — 
Trending  towards  that  province  bright, 

The  soul  in  its  foreknowing  sees, 
Where,  in  the  rare  supernal  light 

Are  gained  the  heavenly  degrees. 

O  friends,  take  heart  —  we're  ripening  fast, 

And  Heaven  alone  our  fates  doth  hold  : 
We  know  not  how  our  lot  is  cast, 

Till  Time  —  how  long?  —  the  fact  has  told. 
But  long  or  short,  no  matter  now  ; 

We  have  no  room  for  doubts  nor  fears, 
To  the  same  power  our  hearts  we  bow, 

That's  kept  us  five-and-twenty  years. 


CONTRASTS  AND   SIMILITUDES.         115 


CONTRASTS   AND   SIMILITUDES.* 

THREE  Pilgrims  of  the  old  Bay  State 
Have  wandered  from  their  friends  away, 

And  rest  a  bit  within  your  gate, 
Their  Pilgrim  offerings  to  pay. 

Not  like  the  Pilgrims  known  of  yore, 
With  grizzly  beards  and  scallop  shell, 

And  dusty  clothes  and  pedals  sore, 
And  hardships  that  were  sad  to  tell. 

We  do  not  brag  of  weary  tramps, 
Of  hungry  fasts,  and  shrines  afar; 

Instead  of  stumps  we  favor  stamps, 
And  plod  it  in  a  railroad  car. 

We  read  the  story  of  the  two 

Who  penance  did  to  walk  on  peas, 

The  one  of  whom  went  glibly  through, 
The  other  sore  and  ill  at  ease. 


*  Read  on  the  occasion  of  a  visit  to  Naomi  Lodge  of  Rebekah,  at  Prov 
idence,  R.  I. 


Il6          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  when  the  first  was  asked  how  he 

Could  walk  so  easily  about, 
Replied,  with  grinning  phiz,  "  You  see, 

I  boiled  my  peas  ere  I  set  out." 

So  easily  we  come  to-night, 

With  friendly  sympathy  aglow  ; 

We  heard  your  word  of  kind  invite, 
And  like  Rebekah  said  —  "  I'll  go  !  " 

"  I'll  go  !  "  and  this  recalls  a  tale 
We  in  the  good  old  Bible  read, 

Where  different  customs  did  prevail 
From  those  that  in  these  days  we  heed, 

Now,  when  a  young  man  seeks  to  wed, 
He  wants  no  fussy  parent's  aid, 

But  puts  his  best  hat  on  his  head, 

And  goes  right  off  and  asks  the  maid. 

If  she  says  "  YES,"  why,  well  and  good, 
The  old  folks  all  ignored,  you  see ; 

But  things  were  not  so  understood 
Down  in  the  land  of  old  Judee. 

The  patriarch  Abraham,  well  in  years, 
Deemed  that,  before  he  closed  his  life, 

'Twere  best  to  seek  among  his  peers 
And  find  young  Israel  a  wife. 


CONTRASTS  AND   SIMILITUDES.         117 

Isaac  was  only  forty-three 

When  his  papa  conceived  this  thought ; 
The  merest  infant,  you'll  agree, 

Whose  tender  judgment  passed  for  nought. 

To  years  discreet  he  hadn't  come, 

And  so  a  servant  Abraham  sent 
To  choose  a  wife,  and  bring  her  home, 

To  share  the  youthful  Israel's  tent. 

First  Abraham  prayed  and  asked  a  sign, 
To  show  the  servant  where  to  go  ; 

And  the  far  land  of  sheep  and  kine 

The  answering  voice  of  Heaven  did  show. 

But  Abraham  said  that,  any  how, 

His  boy  no  heathen  maid  should  wed; 

And  so  the  servant  made  a  vow,  / 
And  straightway  to  Judea  sped. 

He'd  seen  a  damsel  by  a  spring, 

Revealed  on  his  celestial  chart ; 
And  camels  took  and  many  a  thing 

Likely  to  win  a  maiden's  heart. 

He  came  unto  a  Jewish  town, 

Where,  by  a  wayside  sparkling  rill, 

Maidens  at  eventide  came  down 
Their  jugs  and  demijohns  to  fill. 


n8          LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  servant  prayed  :  "  Was  she  with  these 
Whom  he  in  his  long  journey  sought? 

If  so,  Lord,  let  her  serve  him,  please, 
And  give  his  kneeling  beasts  a  thought." 

He  asked  the  boon,  when  one  straightway 
Drew  from  the  well  the  water  cold, 

And  said,  u  Now  drink  yourself,  sir,  pray, 
Then  let  your  beasts  drink  all  they'll  hold. 

He  thanked  her  for  her  courtesy, 
In  good  old-fashioned  Bible  way,  — 

Speaking  in  manner  somewhat  free, 
Without  the  nonsense  of  to-day. 

He  asked  her,  "  Who  are  you,  my  dear?" 
Said  she,  "  Rebekah,  Bethuel's  daughter, 

Grandchild  of  Nahor,  Abraham's  frere, 
Come  out  to  draw  our  folks  some  water." 

.    And  then  the  servant  truly  knew 

That  she  was  just  the  one  he  sought ; 
She  was  right  beautiful  to  view, 
And  innocent  in  deed  and  thought. 

He  on  her  a  rare  gift  bestowed,  — 

Earrings  and  bracelets  pure  and  bright, 

And  asked  her  if  at  her  abode 

She  thought  they'd  keep  him  over  night. 


CONTRASTS  AND   SIMILITUDES.         119 

She  pledged  him  welcome  and  ran  home 

Her  brother  Laban  there  to  tell, 
Who  with  an  eager  haste  did  come 

Where  stood  the  stranger  at  the  well, — 

And  took  him  home,  and  there  he  told 
The  errand  which  his  care  so  tasked  ; 

They  saw  the  Lord  in  all  unfold, 

But  thought  Rebekah  should  be  asked. 

'Twas  very  kind  in  them,  no  doubt, 
To  give  the  maid  a  chance  to  choose, 

Whom  Heaven  had  formed  the  match  without  — 
And  what  if  she  should  dare  refuse  ! 

So  she  was  called,  and  straightway  given 

All  of  her  mission  high  to  know, 
And,  seeing  'twas  the  will  of  Heaven, 

She  firmly  said  at  once  —  I'LL  GO  ! 

Never  was  courtship  quicker  done, 

Never  an  answer  quicker  made  ; 
Were  she  a  more  romantic  one 

The  answer  might  have  been  delayed. 

But  'twas  the  will  of  Heaven,  you  know, 
Not  reckoned  like  our  common  chances  ; 

Things  then  were  nothing  near  as  slow 
As  they  appear  in  our  romances. 


120          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Ah,  day  of  simple  blessedness  ! 

In  this  thou  art  appreciated, 
When  twenty  yards  compose  a  dress, 

The  wardrobe  twenty  duplicated. 

No  Saratoga  trunks  were  hers, 

Her  bridal  trip  to  mar  and  trammel ; 

She  made  no  draft  on  milliners, 
But  took  her  bundle  on  a  camel. 

She  had  no  dread  of  fortune  rough, 

—  This  simple-hearted  Jewish  daughter ;  - 

Perhaps  she  thought  she'd  drudged  enough, 
And  Laban  left  to  draw  the  water. 

So  off  she  went  —  and  none  more  true, 
As  wife  and  mother,  e'er  existed, 

Except  that  fact  of  Jacob's  stew, 

Which  I  confess  seems  somewhat  twisted. 

The  meaning  of  my  humble  rhyme 
Is  in  the  two  words  herein  quoted  : 

I'LL  GO  !  —  an  energy  sublime 

Invests  the  words  with  zeal  devoted. 

And  the  Rebekahs  of  our  day, 

Who  the  same  generous  rule  pursue, 

Enact  in  as  sublime  a  way 

The  conduct  of  the  gentle  Jew. 


CONTRASTS  AND   SIMILITUDES.         121 

Where  duty's  call  by  them  is  heard, 

Where  speaks  the  heart  oppressed  by  woe, 

Where  men  grow  sick  with  hope  deferred, 
Their  voice  responds  as  then  —  I'LL  GO  ! 

There's  hope  and  blessing  in  the  cup 
They  pour,  dark  sorrow  to  beguile  ; 

The  dying  eye  with  joy  lights  up 

To  catch  the  beaming  of  their  smile. 

We  have  no  rings  or  bracelets  fine 

To  deck  the  ones  we  honor  so  ; 
But  let  us  prove  the  call  divine, 

And  straight  they  answer  it  —  I'LL  GO  ! 

Rebekah  prompts  our  energy, 

She  strengthens  every  thought  of  good, 
She  leads  us  hopefully  to  see 

The  truth  in  all  vicissitude. 

She  gives  a  charm  to  friendship's  claim, 
And  Love  assumes  a  purer  sway 

When  she  divinely  feeds  the  flame 
To  light  us  o'er  life's  troubled  way. 

We  bring  no  camels  in  our  train, 

Nor  thirsting  men  to  claim  her  care  ; 

But  she  upon  the  Judean  plain, 

Had  not,  than  these,  more  virtues  rare. 


122          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  all  the  hospitable  grace 
That  in  the  Jewess  fair  we  see, 

In  Rhoda  wears  as  bright  a  face 
As  e'er  did  hers  in  old  Judee. 

And  we  with  imitative  mind, 

As  such  traits  our  Rebekahs  show, 

Feel  to  hold  back  no  whit  inclined, 
But  say,  like  her  of  old,  "  I'LL  GO  !  " 


AFTER-DINNER  EFFORT.  123 


AFTER-DINNER    EFFORT.* 

I  RISE  responsive  to  your  knead,  as  the  loaf  said  to 

the  baker, 
Albeit  I'm  shaking  in  my  shoes,  although  I'm  not  a 

Shaker ; 
And  though  my  rhymes  may  be  devoid  of  qualifying 

reason, 
As    dry   as    vernal    blossoms    are    in    huckleberry 

season, 
Still,  may  be,  it  is  better   thus,  as  I  may  then  be 

able 
To  partly  meet  your  wish,  and  give  you  something 

dry  at  table. 

Of    all   the   elements    of  Man,   the   social   and   the 

Jolly 

Are  pungent  condiments  that  hide  his  weakness  and 

his  folly, 
And    though   the  laugh    be    banned   by   some,  and 

thrown  o'er  'mong  the  vices, 
It  gives  the  piquancy  to  life  that  pudding  gets  from 

spices. 

*  Read  at  the  Universalist  Festival,  in  Faneuil  Hall,  June  28,  1872, 


1 24  LINES  IN  PL  EA  SA  NT  PL  A  CES. 

No  germ  of  good  is  lost  the  world,  but  has  more 
healthy  growing 

In  atmospheres  where  wit's  bright  sun  beams  round 
with  fervor  glowing  — 

Where  humor  permeates  the  soul,  and,  all  its  cells 
unsealing, 

Up  spring  the  seeds  of  happiness  to  bloom  in  flow 
ers  of  feeling ! 

E'en  "  sweet  religion,"  oft  obscured  by  sacerdotal 
glamour, 

By  far  more  potently  proclaims  if  cheer  dictate  its 
grammar ; 

No  u  rhapsody  of  words,"  alone,  whose  trade-mark 
is  a  steeple, 

But  truth,  in  smiles,  exampling  best  the  ugood 
news  to  all  people/7 

Vice  gains  no  help  from  cheerfulness,  and  our  own 
genial  poet 

Says  he  "  ne'er  heard  a  hearty  laugh  from  out  a  vil 
lain's  throat"  — 

Pardon  the  rhyme  —  'tis  somewhat  crude  —  but  do 
not  snap  your  bard  up. 

For  he,  like  bigger  bards,  some  time,  may  for  a  rhyme 
be  hard  up. 

Where'er  the  festive  board  is  spread,  there  mirth  is 

most  resplendent, 
With  "  chunks  of  wisdom  "  interblent,   and  reason 

in  ascendant ; 
And  of  one  thing  we're  pretty  sure,  that  mirth  is  not 

dyspeptic, 


AFTER-DINNER   EFFORT.  125 

As,   half  from   indigestion,  come   the  bigot  and  the 

sceptic. 
We   turn   a   new   leaf  in  Life's   hook,   with  plates 

illuminated, 
And    through   rare    gustatory   arts    our    tastes    and 

minds  are  sated  ; 
A  while  through  clear  contented  eyes  in  happy  mood 

we  see  things, 
And  catch  new  inspiration  from  the  tinkle  of  the  tea 

things. 
So,  there's  no  time  of  all  the  year  more  grand  than 

this,  or  pleasant, 
That  brings,   in   universal   cheer,   so   many  kinfolk 

present, 
From  worldly  strife,  and  worldly  care,  and  secular 

exaction, 
To  find  in  social  union  meet  congenial  satisfaction. 

The  old-time  Jews  were  yearly  wont  Jerusalem  to 
haste  to, 

And  carry  up  their  offerings,  and  do  as  they'd  a 
taste  to, 

Obeying  the  Mosaic  law,  and  seeing  their  rela 
tions, 

And  mingling  secular,  perhaps,  with  pious  opera 
tions  : 

Pot-luck  partaking  with  their  friends,  or  at  the  hotels 
stopping, 

And  giving  Moses  half  the  time,  and  half  the  time 
to  shopping. 

And  so  our  anniversary  week  —  it  an  undoubted  fact 


is  — 


126          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Was  based  on  this  beneficent  and  very  human  prac 
tice, 

And,  gathering  all  our  interests  that  yearly  have 
collected, 

Boston  becomes  Jerusalem  by  centuries  perfected  ; 

And  like  the  shoe  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  by  Eugene 
Sue  created, 

Whose  seven  hob-nails  impressed  the  snow  o'er 
which  he  peregrinated, 

These  seven  days  on  Time's  broad  plain  make  evi 
dent  impression, 

And  this,  most  lasting  of  them  all,  by  social  joy's 
possession. 

We  leave  our  burdens  at  the  door,  and  enter,  warm 
and  glowing, 

As  Bunyan's  "Pilgrim"  cast  his  pack,  and  find  it, 
"  better  going  :  "  — 

Burdens  of  every  weight  and  form  that  plague  the 
genus  human, 

As  discipline  or  ballast,  borne  by  every  man  and 
woman. 

And  what  a  pile  they  make  !  There's  home,  with 
cares  of  mighty  meaning  — 

The  cares  of  summer  dress-making,  of  cooking  or 
of  cleaning ; 

The  care  of  politics,  that  claims  each  patriot's  atten 
tion, 

And  leads  him  through  mysterious  ways,  too  nu 
merous  to  mention  ; 

The  care  of  ardent  temperance  souls,  who  feel  in 
purpose  hearty, 


AFTER-DINNER  EFFORT.  127 

But  fear  to  act  lest  they,  mayhap,  should  compro 
mise  their  party  ; 

The  care   of  hiring   pastors   of  immaculate   preten 
sion, 
And  building  churches  for  their  use  of  such  sublime 

dimension, 
That  how  to   pay  for  them,  becomes  the  hardest  to 

determine, 
And  far  more  dues  upon  them  rest  than  ever  fell  on 

Hermon  ; 
The  care  of  fashion,  that  controls   with   power  the 

most  provoking, 
And  influences  everything,  from  preaching  down  to 

smoking  — 
That   such   controlling  bias  hath,  over  all  men  and 

women, 
The  human  structure,  grand,  is  made  subordinate  to 

trimmin', 
And  though  admitting  woman's  wrongs  —  so  many, 

Heaven  bless  her  !  — 
Chivalric   man   don't   clearly   see   how   he   can  e'er 

redress  her  ; 
The  care  of  trade's  perplexities,  and  thinking  where 

to  borrow 

The  money  that's  to  pay  the  note  becoming  due  to 
morrow  ! 
I'll  not  look   farther   to   disclose  more    than  is  here 

depicted, 

Lest,  haply,  I  should  stumble  over  something  inter 
dicted. 

There  let  cares  lie  until  we  leave,  no  festal   feature 
marring, 


128         LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

For  they  are  some  like  earthquakes,  prone  to  cause 
unpleasant  jarring ; 

We  are  better  for  the  brief  release,  and  then,  when 
we  are  through  it, 

We'll  dare  the  fight  we  are  called  to  wage  with  bet 
ter  pluck  to  do  it. 

We  take  not  fellowship  with  those  who  are  always 

sighing,  whining, 
Who  have  no  word  for  thankfulness  and  twenty  for 

repining, 
Who  cannot   see   in  Nature's   smiles  for   smiles   of 

theirs  excuses, 
And  turn  the  good  seen   everywhere   to  melancholy 

uses ; 
Could  such  come  here  and  view  with  me  this  scene 

of  happy  faces, 
'Twould   warm   their  hearts,  I  know,  to  feel   their 

cheer-imparting  graces, 
Beaming  upon  them  like  the  sun,  prompting  a  warm 

devotion, 
And  giving  what  the  monarch  craved  so  much  — a 

new  emotion. 
Ours   is,  thank  God  !   the  cheerful  heart,   that  holds 

not  earth  a  prison, 
Nor  gropes  within  the  tomb  of  joy  for   that   which 

has  arisen  ; 

Heaven  strews  our  path  with  cheerfulness,  and  grate 
fully  we  prize  it, 
As  at  this  passover  of  soul  we  yearly  realize  it. 


AFTER-DINNER  EFFORT.  129 

We  have  deep  sympathy  for  such  as  cling  to  dogmas 
dismal, 

Who  smell,  in  all  life's  pleasant  things,  an  atmos 
phere  abysmal, 

Who,  with  unhealthy  fancies  fraught,  sigh  o'er  their 
neighbor's  errors, 

And  see  in  all  God's  attributes  no  features  but  his 
terrors,  — 

Consigning  those  not  of  their  fold  to  Satan's  dark 
dominion, 

While  theirs  shall  pass  the  ordeal,  and  never  scorch 
a  pinion  : 

With  tastes  all  warped  to  match  their  souls,  by  big 
otry  incrusted. 

Well  was  it  that  to  any  such  the  earth  was  not  in 
trusted  — 

To  mould  it  and  to  decorate  —  there'd  be  no  cheerful 
feature, 

And  mirth  would  be  a  tabooed  thing  in  every  living 
creature. 

The  trees  and  flowers  would  be  of  drab,  the  birds 
in  sables  winging, 

And  nought  but  dirges  be  allowed  in  all  their  native 
singing. 

That  robin  there  upon  the  tree,  which  wakes  me 
from  my  slumbers, 

Would  tune  his  throat  to  other  note  and  trill  in 
dismal  numbers. 

The  colts  that  frisk  beside  their  dams  would  then 
repress  their  ambling, 

9 


130         LINES  IN  PLEASANT   PLACES. 

And  lambs  would  never  be  allowed  to  carry  on  their 

gamboling ; 
The  joyous   sea  its  sportive   waves  would  hold  in 

strict  subjection, 
And  the  glad  sun  would   spend  its  rays  in   serious 

reflection. 
Thank  Heaven,  the  number  is  but  few  ;  the  light  of 

Truth,  downpouring, 
Has  waked  the  sleepers  in  their  caves,  and  set  their 

spirits  soaring ; 

The  garb  of  stern  theology  is  seedy  grown  and  tat 
tered, 
And  the  solid  shot  of  living  Truth  its  citadel  has 

shattered. 
No  more  does  difference  of  sect  the  status  fix  for 

sinners, 
And  those  who  do  the  right  are  right,  and  in  the 

race  are  winners. 

Bless  God  for  Joy  ! — it  warms  the  breast  and  sets  its 
tide  to  flowing, 

As  Spring  unseals  the  vernal  brooks,  and  wakes  the 
grass  to  growing ; 

Each  smile  a  message  from  the  soul,  with  joy's  efful 
gence  shining, 

Is  prayer  and  worship  unexpressed,  that  need  no 
word-defining ; 

And  upward,  onward,  moving  e'er,  accretive  force 
receiving, 

The  cheerful  soul  exemplifies  the  true  "joy  of  be 
lieving." 


WAR  LYRICS. 


MASSACHUSETTS. 

I  HEAR  an  army's  mighty  tread, 
And  the  sound  of  war's  alarms  ; 

I  read  a  thought,  serene  but  dread, 
Written  in  gleaming  arms  ; 

A  solemn  purpose  fills  the  air 

Like  the  holy  effluence  of  prayer. 

I  feel  the  thrill  of  a  people's  heart 
In  the  drum  tap's  stirring  beat, 

And  the  quickened  pulse's  fervid  start 
In  the  rush  of  hasty  feet, 

And  the  gleam  of  vengeful  glances  shines 

Along  the  bayonets'  glistening  lines. 

I  see  a  nation's  triumph  stand 

In  acts  of  generous  trust, 
Where  wealth  unclasps  its  iron  hand 

And  scatters  the  needed  dust  — 
Giving  the  sinews  of  golden  life 
To  the  holy  cause  of  Freedom's  strife. 

'Tis  Massachusetts'  glance  of  light  — 
The  glare  of  the  glittering  steel, 


134          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  earnest  of  her  awful  might 

In  the  vital  thrill  we  feel, 

And  her  voice  is  the  cannon's  blasting  breath, 
That  speaks  to  Treason  the  doom  of  Death. 

Honest  old  Commonwealth  !  to  thee 

Thy  children  look  with  pride  ; 
Thy  name  a  pass-word  to  the  free, 

With  right  identified ; 

Thy  bidding  we  hear,  like  a  mother's  word, 
And  our  hearts  to  their  deepest  depths  are  stirred. 

God  bless  thee  !  every  heart  outpours, 

And  every  arm  grows  strong, 
From  mountain  bound  to  ocean  shores, 

Thy  glory  to  prolong  ; 
To  live  in  thy  cause  is  an  honor  high, 
But  a  greater  in  such  a  cause  to  die. 


THROUGH  BALTIMORE.  135 


THE   SIXTH   AT   BALTIMORE. 

OUR  country  called  on  her  sons  for  aid, 

And  we  shouldered  the  gun  and  drew  the  blade, 

Leaving  the  anvil,  the  plough,  and  saw, 

To  fight  for  the  Union  and  for  law, 

To  fight  for  the  flag  our  fathers  bore  — 

And  our  pathway  led  through  Baltimore. 

There  was  no  moment  for  doubts  or  fears, 
There  was  no  time  for  sighs  nor  tears ; 
We  said  "  good  by,"  with  hurried  breath, 
Then  marched  to  the  field  of  life  or  death, 
And  fealty  to  our  land  we  swore 
Ere  we  marched  to  its  aid  through  Baltimore. 

And  godly  hands  in  blessing  were  spread, 
And  smiles  from  Beauty  were  on  us  shed, 
And  the  starry  flag,  that  we  bore  in  pride, 
Was  cheered  and  lauded  on  every  side, 
With  devotion  never  known  before, 
As  we  took  up  our  march  for  Baltimore. 

'Twas  April  nineteenth  day,  and  the  sun 
That  had  seen  the  carnage  at  Lexington, 
Shone  on  us  as  we  took  our  way 


136          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Through  lanes  of  foeman  in  hate's  array, 
And  a  scowling  look  each  stern  face  wore 
That  we  saw  as  we  marched  through  Baltimore. 

Then  hateful  glances  took  sterner  form, 
And  rained  upon  us  a  fearful  storm  ; 
Fierce,  terrible  missiles  around  us  fell, 
'Mid  oaths  that  might  shame  the  sons  of  hell ; 
But  we  quailed  not  'mid  the  angry  roar 
That  swept  through  the  streets  of  Baltimore. 

Not  a  shout  or  cry  in  our  ranks  was  heard, 
But  our  rifles  spoke  the  voiceless  word, 
And  our  leaden  sentences  went  deep 
To  put  seditious  hearts  to  sleep  ; 
But  sadly,  though  sternly,  we  deplore 
Our  own  brave,  fallen  at  Baltimore. 

But  the  guerdon  of  glory  's  for  those  who  fall ; 
For  the  nation's  flag  is  their  funeral  pall, 
And  the  nation's  tears  the  turf  bedew 
That  covers  their  hearts  so  bold  and  true  ; 
Deathless  are  they  who  life  gave  o'er 
On  the  bloody  pavements  of  Baltimore. 

The  dead  return,  the  arms  to  nerve 

And  strengthen  hearts  that  else  might  swerve  ; 

They  speak  again,  from  the  silent  sod, 

In  a  voice  that  stirs  like  the  voice  of  God, 

And  heroes  vow,  from  their  hearts'  deep  core, 

To  follow  the  Sixth  through  Baltimore. 


TO  BEAUFORT.  137 


THE   WAY   WE   WENT   TO   BEAUFORT. 

FULL  fifty  sail  we  were  that  day 
When  out  to  sea  we  sped  away, 

With  a  feeling  of  brooding  mystery  ; 
Bound  —  there  was  no  telling  where  ; 
But  well  we  knew  there  was  strife  to  share, 
And  we  felt  our  mission  was  bound  to  bear 

A  place  in  heroic  history. 

The  man  at  the  helm,  nothing  knew  he 
As  he  steered  his  ship  out  into  the  sea, 

On  that  morn  of  radiant  beauty  ; 
And  the  ships  outspread  their  wings,  and  flew 
Like  sea-birds  over  the  water  blue  ; 
One  thought  alone  each  one  of  us  knew  — 

How  best  to  do  his  duty. 

Not  a  breath  of  wherefore  or  why  was  heard, 
Not  a  doubting  thought  or  a  doubting  word, 

Or  idle  speculation  ; 
But  a  spirit  of  inspiring  trust 
Filled  each  man's  breast,  as  it  always  must 
When  leaders  are  brave  and  a  cause  is  just  — 

And  ours  the  cause  of  the  nation. 


138          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

.And  thus  we  went  —  the  hurricane's  breath 
Was  felt  in  our  track,  like  the  blast  of  death, 

But  we  had  no  thought  of  turning; 
Onward,  and  onward,  the  good  fleet  sped, 
Locked  in  its  breast  the  secret  dread, 
To  break  in  gloom  over  treason's  head, 

Where  —  we  should  soon  be  learning. 

But  brave  Dupont  and  Sherman  knew 

Where  the  bolt  should  light,  and  each  gallant  crew 

Was  ready  to  heed  their  orders. 
Port  Royal,  ho  !  —  and  a  bright  warm  day  ; 
We  made  the  land  many  miles  away, 
And  sullenly  there  before  us  lay 

Fierce  Carolina's  borders. 

The  mystery  was  all  compassed  then, 
And  the  heart  of  seasick  weary  men 

Cheered  up,  the  prospect  viewing ; 
There  is  that  grit  in  the  human  mind, 
However  gentle,  or  good,  or  kind, 
That  is  always  to  double  its  fist  inclined 

When  near  where  a  fight  is  brewing. 

The  rebel  guns  waked  a  fearful  note 
From  our  rifled  cannon's  open  throat, 

And  our  shells  flew  fast  and  steady. 
The  battle  is  over  —  the  strife  is  done  — 
The  stars  and  bars  from  the  forts  have  run  — 
The  blow  is  struck  and  victory  won  — 

Beaufort  is  ours  already  ! 


TO  BEAUFORT.  J39 

And  then  we  sailed  to  the  beautiful  town, 
Where  we  tore  the  emblem  of  treason  down, 

And  planted  the  starry  banner ; 
And  the  breezes  of  heaven  seemed  to  play 
With  the  folds  in  a  tender  and  loving  way, 
As  though  they  were  proud  to  welcome  the  day, 

And  the  old  familiar  manner. 

A  thrill  pervaded  the  loyal  land 

When  the  gladdening  tidings  came  to  hand  ; 

Each  heart  felt  joy's  emotion  ; 
The  cloud  of  gloom  and  doubt  dispersed, 
The  sun  of  hope  through  the  darkness  burst, 
And  the  zeal  the  patriot's  heart  had  nurst 

Burned  with  a  warm  devotion. 


14°          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


GRIERSON'S   RAID. 

[Both  sides  came  out  of  the  war  about  even  in  the  matter  of  raids,  not  count 
ing  Sherman's  March  to  the  Sea.] 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  Grierson's  Raid. 
And  the  feats  of  valor  therein  displayed? 
'Twas  a  brave,  bold  dash  through  the  hostile  land 
That  scattered  terror  on  every  hand, 
Making  the  rebel  heart  afraid 
At  the  daring  valor  of  Grierson's  Raid  ! 

Over  their  mountains  and  over  their  plains, 
The  rider  his  galloping  courser  strains ; 
His  sword  gleams  bright  in  the  foeman's  face, 
And  ruin  follows  his  onward  pace  ; 
While  eyes  are  sad  and  hearts  dismayed 
At  the  terrible  scourge  of  Grierson's  Raid. 

Through  their  cities  and  over  their  streams 
The  flag  of  the  Union  once  more  gleams  ; 
There's  a  curse  on  the  air,  but  in  under  breath, 
As  the  troopers  go'on  their  work  of  death  ; 
Like  lightning  flashes  each  loyal  blade 
To  light  the  path  of  Grierson's  Raid. 


GRIERSON'S  RAID.  141 

Onward,  yet  onward,  O,  who  may  stay 
The  fiery  tide  of  this  fearful  day  ? 
It  sweeps  like  a  tempest  along  his  path, 
And  whelms  the  rebel  in  vengeful  wrath  ; 
The  smoking  bridge  shows  War's  fierce  trade, 
And  fire  and  ruin  mark  Grierson's  Raid. 

Onward,  yet  onward,  the  blazing  roof 
Echoes  in  flame  to  the  cavalry  hoof; 
And  fleeing  forms  in  the  midnight  air, 
Revealed  by  the  war-pyre's  ruddy  glare, 
Tell  the  story,  in  fear  displayed, 
Of  the  woful,  terrible  Grierson's  Raid. 

Onward,  yet  onward,  unholden  the  rein, 
Till  the  Union  lines  are  compassed  again, 
Where  a  meed  of  grateful  honors  is  due 
For  the  troopers  bold,  and  tried,  and  true ; 
And  history  never  has  deed  portrayed 
That  brighter  shines  than  Grierson's  Raid. 

And  rebel  mothers  their  children  shall  tell 

Of  the  sudden  fear  that  on  them  fell, 

When,  swooping  down  like  a  bird  on  its  prey, 

The  Federal  troopers  came  that  way,  — 

A  sad  recital  as  ever  was  made, 

The  memories  dire  of  Grierson's  Raid. 


142          LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


"POOR  BOY!" 

"  POOR  boy  !  "  the  mother  fondly  sighed, 
When  she  had  bid  the  lad  farewell, 

But  in  her  eye  was  a  lofty  pride 

That  spoke  more  than  her  tongue  would  tell 

And  though  her  nature  said  "  poor  boy," 
He  in  her  breast  held  grander  place, 

And  thrilled  it  with  a  nobler  joy 

Than  were  he  heir  of  wealth  and  grace. 

His  was  the  heart  to  do  and  dare 
In  manly  battle  with  the  wrong ; 

She  might  not  in  his  conflict  share, 

But  she  could  yield  him  and  be  strong. 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  O,  epithet  misplaced. 

Not  poor  by  laws  that  reckon  worth  ; 
The  noblest  record  fame  has  traced 

Has  had  no  more  exalted  birth. 

The  soul  that  thus  in  Duty's  path 
Bounds  forward  at  its  first  appeal, 


POOR  EOT.  T.|3 

More  grandeur  in  the  humblest  hath 
Than  titled  state  that  cannot  feel. 

Mother,  though  heavy  with  your  fears, 
Throw  all  your  burdening  doubts  away ; 

Discard  the  ministry  of  tears  — 

Your  boy  is  crowned  a  king  to-day  ! 

Not  poor  !  could  you  but  see  the  goal 
For  those  the  race  have  nobly  run, 

'Twould  glad  your  yearning  mother-soul 
To  mark  the  glory  he  has  won. 

Not  eighty  years  of  golden  sands, 
Nor  life,  though  spotless  of  a  shame, 

So  high  an  eminence  commands 

As  the  young  hero's  laurelled  name. 

Thank  God,  O  mother,  who  hath  given 

This  treasure  of  immortal  price, 
That  you  might  render  back  to  Heaven 

Your  wealth  of  love  as  sacrifice. 


144          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


WAR'S  CHANGES. 


[Some  of  the  most  bellicose  men  in  time  of  the  war,  had  been,  previously,  the 
most  strenuous  advocates  of  peace.  Mr.  Israel  Lamb,  one  thus  changed,  re 
lates  his  own  experience.] 


I  CAN'T  for  the  life  of  me  tell  what  it  means, 
Or  whether  if  wrong  or  if  right, 

But  I  love  to  look  on  militant  scenes, 
And  am  spoiling  to  mix  in  a  fight. 

I  late  was  reckoned  a  peaceable  man, 
And  shrunk  at  all  details  of  strife  ; 

Now  I  glory  the  records  of  bloodshed  to  scan 
And  the  savagest  havoc  of  life. 

I  buy  all  the  extras  containing  the  news, 

I  read  all  the  bulletin  boards, 
And  'twixt  peace  and  war  the  latter  I  choose, 

It  such  keen  excitement  affords. 

I  feel  disappointed  every  day 

With  the  tales  of  monotonous  peace, 

And  my  bump  of  benevolence  dwindles  away 
As  my  truculent  organs  increase. 


WAX'S   CHANGES. 

I  never  the  sight  of  blood  could  bear, 

I  never  could  kill  a  fly ; 
But  now  the  carnage  of  war  I  could  share, 

And  look  red  strife  in  the  eye. 

I've  bought  me  a  gun  and  a  bowie-knife, 

Take  lessons  of  Salignac, 
And  dreadfully  frighten  my  timid  wife 

With  talk  of  defence  and  attack. 

When  friends  happen  in  to  sup  or  dine, 
I  "p'sent  arms"  when  they  come  ; 

I  range  them  in  regimental  line, 
And  serve  at  the  tap  of  the  drum. 

The  baby  wakes  me  up  in  the  night, 

I  fancy  'tis  war's  alarms, 
I  loudly  shriek  out,  "  On  with  the  fight  — 

The  Infantry  to  arms  !  " 

My  theory  for  the  change  is  this, 

And  strengthened  every  hour : 
The  thunder  of  war  has  turned,  I  wis, 

My  milk  of  kindness  sour. 
10 


146          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE   OLD   WAR-SHIP. 

RESTING  idly  at  the  pier, 
The  old  war-ship,  grim  and  drear, 
Seems  begging  for  our  sympathy  as  we  now  pass 
her  near. 

We  recall  her  in  her  pride, 
As  she  plunged  into  the  tide, 

When  the  gallant  Ocean,  waiting,  claimed  her  as  his 
bride. 

And  trim  and  taut  she  lay, 
The  glory  of  the  bay, 
With  her  energies  awakening,  all  ready  for  the  fray. 

Up  rose  her  taper  spars, 
Till  they  seemed  amid  the  stars, 
And  at  her  peak  gleamed  forth  the  white  and  ruby 
bars. 

And  her  batteries'  grim  frown 
Seemed  to  send  a  challenge  down 
To  foes  who   might   mean  ill  to  the  old  and  quiet 
town. 


THE    OLD    WAR- SHIP.  147 

And  when  her  wings  she  spread, 
And  o'er  the  waves  she  sped, 
O,  many  were  the  things  of  pride  and  hope  we  said. 

But  here  she  is  again  ; 
And  what  a  change  is  plain, 

As  we   read   her  glories  when  first  she  braved  the 
main  ! 

Her  hulk  is  soiled  and  worn, 
Of  spars  and  rigging  shorn, 

And  her  batteries  long  since  from  her  embrace  were 
torn. 

And,  while  resting  there,  we  deem 
That  she  must  sadly  dream 
Of  her  olden  glory  lost  of  the  ocean  and  the  stream. 

Ah,  what  a  dream  is  hers ! 
If  every  scene  recurs 

That  has  made  her  story  famous  which  no  recreancy 
blurs. 

Her  cannon's  voice  has  spoke 
Where  the  waves  of  battle  broke, 
And  Freedom's  strains  were  heard  in  the  echoes  she 
awoke. 

Adown  her  sides  again 
The  red  blood  flows  amain, 

And  the  splinters  fly  around  from  the  showers  of  iron 
rain. 


148          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  while  her  cannons  speak, 
Again  out  from  her  peak 

Floats  the  glory  of  her   ensign   that  flushes  every 
cheek. 

And  we  love  the  old  ship  more 
For  the  glory  given  o'er, 

Than  when  with  pride  we  blessed  her  as  she  parted 
from  the  shore. 


FRIENDLY  PERSONALITIES. 


149 


TO  JAMES  T.   FIELDS. 

MY  dear  old  friend,  —  kind,  genial  James,  — 

Old  Time,  that  the  emotions  tames, 

Has  wrought  no  change  in  friendship's  claims 

'Twixt  you  and  me, 
And  now,  as  when  in  boyhood's  aims, 

We  still  agree. 

In  spheres  diverse  our  lots  were  cast, 
And  years,  in  busy  purpose  passed, 
Show  us,  on  summing  up  at  last, 

A  different  fare ; 
But  glad  am  I  that  fortune  fast 

Has  been  your  share. 

No  truer  soul  than  yours,  my  friend, 
Did  ever  favoring  fates  attend, 
With  power  to  reach  desired  end  ; 

None  more  deserving 
The  boon  that  Heaven  doth  kindly  send 

For  truth  unswerving. 


152          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Amid  the  smiles  of  rich  success, 

While  wealth  and  fame  their  claim  might  press, 

No  lure  could  dull  the  tenderness 

Of  early  years, 
Or  make  that  light  of  lights  grow  less 

That  still  inheres. 

I've  felt  its  warmth  when  cloudy  skies 
Made  all  seem  dark  before  my  eyes ; 
When  adverse  Fate  in  sternest  guise 

My  heart  assailed, 
You  bade  my  hope  again  arise, 

And  peace  prevailed. 

And  iu  this  grateful  frame  to-night, 
WTith  memory's  beacon  burning  bright, 
My  pen,  instinctive  turns  to  write 

The  prompted  line, 
And  pour  upon  your  friendly  sight 

This  heart  of  mine. 

I  may  not  swell  your  earthly  fame, 

Witli  measure  of  a  loud  acclaim  ; 

Do  what  I  may,  it  were  but  tame  4 

To  what's  been  done  ; 
But  in  my  breast,  my  friend,  your  name 

Stands  number  one. 

I'll  joy  the  glad  accord  to  hear 
That  greets  you  all  clays  o'  the  year ; 


TO   JAMBS    T.   FIELDS.  153 

Beholding  your  content  and  cheer 

It  adds  to  mine, 
And  prompts  the  heartiness  sincere 

Of  auld  lang  syne. 

Accept,  dear  Fields,  the  humble  strain 
That  long  upon  my  mind  has  lain  ; 
My  Muse  in  your  behalf  would  fain 

Much  more  express, 
But  trying  more  (I  hence  refrain) 

Might  make  it  less. 

o 


154          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING. 


[Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  Marriage  of  Elder  and  Mrs.   Moses  Howe,  New 
Bedford,  Mass.] 


"  HAIL,  wedded  love  !  "  thus  Milton  sun< 
With  happy  and  exultant  tongue, 
Greeting  the  first  pair,  fresh  and  young, 

But  more  to  prize 
The  love  that,  in  life's  morning  sprung, 

Age  sanctifies. 

At  first,  'tis  but  a  roseate  gleam, 
A  strain  of  music  in  a  dream, 
A  light  upon  a  tranquil  stream, 

No  threat  of  harm, 
The  smiling  heavens  a  radiant  beam 

Of  promise  warm  ; 

But  the  fierce  trial  happens  soon, 
The  care  of  life,  before  its  noon, 
Chilleth  the  heart  to  joy  attune, 

And  then,  perhaps, 
Love's  stocks,  all  up  in  Hope's  balloon, 

Suffer  collapse. 


THE    GOLDEN   WEDDING.  155 

But,  when  well  grounded,  cares  may  press, 
And  sorrow  come,  with  keen  distress, 
And  fortune  fail,  no  whit  the  less 

Doth  true  love  shine  : 
It  showeth  then  its  power  to  bless  — 

Its  source  divine. 

And  age  may  come,  its  whitening  snow 
Upon  the  furrowed  brow  to  throw, 
But,  with  the  loving  heart  aglow, 

No  icy  chill 
Will  check  the  spirit's  cheerful  flow, 

Defying  ill. 

Such  love  is  this  we  crown  to-night, 
Which  burns  more  fervent  in  its  light, 
As,  in  his  ever-restless  flight, 

'Tis  tried  by  Time, 
And,  with  a  radiance  pure  and  bright, 

It  glows  sublime. 

Thank  God  for  wedded  love  like  theirs  ! 

—  Meet  cause  for  blessing  and  for  prayers  — 

Theirs  is  the  bliss  the  angel  shares ; 

Their  ripened  joy, 
In  home's  delightful  evening  airs, 

Hath  no  alloy. 

The  golden  season  of  the  soul, 

Life's  Indian  Summer's  sweet  control, 


156          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  border-land,  with  the  bright  goal 
Broadly  in  sight, 

That  waits  the  just  —  Heaven's  gracious  dole- 
Is  theirs  to-night. 

May  their  serene  descending  sun 

Shine  back  o'er  fields  of  duty  done, 

Of  strifes  encountered  —  victories  won  — 

Till,  hand  in  hand, 
They  pass,  love's  endless  race  to  run 

In  heaven's  ble&t  land. 


C  ONGRA  TULA  TOR  T.  1 5  7 


CONGRATULATORY. 

[To  S.  L.  Clemens  ("  Mark  Twain  ")  on  his  Marriage.] 

DEAR  brother  of  the  happy  pen, 
Your  card  is  just  beneath  my  ken 
Announcing  that  'mongst  married  men 

You've  taken  place : 
Well,  Heaven  bless  you,  "  but  and  ben," 

With  fortune's  grace. 

There's  none  deserving  more  the  prize 
Of  good  that  'long  life's  pathway  lies, 
Lit  by  sweet  smiles  and  sunny  eyes, 

Than  you,  my  friend  ; 
And  o'er  you  may  benignant  skies 

Forever  bend. 

The  world  to  you  a  tribute  brings 
And  on  your  bridal  altar  flings, 
Grateful  and  glad  for  myriad  things 

Your  Muse  has  lent, 
And  one  grand  epithalamium  sings 

O'er  the  event. 


158          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

We've  gloried  in  the  race  you've  run, 
We've  gloried  in  the  fame  you've  won 
Ere  yet  your  life's  meridian  sun 

Has  gained  its  height, 
Illuming  by  its  rays  of  fun 

A  pathway  bright. 

And  better  far  than  all,  dear  Mark, 
Thou'st  found  the  matrimonial  ark 
In  which  the  true  who  there  embark 

Find  many  a  charm, 
That  Prudence  whispers  those  who  hark 

To  save  from  harm. 

And  I,  your  latest  friend,  am  fain 
To  pour  my  tributary  strain, 
In  unpretending  rhyming  vein, 

And  thus  appear, 
Invoking  blessings  on  the  Twain, 

With  heart  sincere. 

BOSTON,  February  7,  1870. 


A   RESPONSE.  159 


A  RESPONSE. 


[On  the  occasion  of  a  Surprise  Visit  of  old  Lodge  associates  to  the  Author, 
one  of  the  number  addressed  to  him  some  rhymes,  to  which  the  response.  ] 


DEAR  Brother  Jim  :  your  pleasant  rhyming 
Set  all  my  memory's  bells  to  chiming, 
With  that  occasion  deftly  timing, 

And  all  the  past 
Flashed  up  before  me  like  a  priming 

In  retrocast. 

Again  the  rush  of  old-time  feeling 

Came  o'er  me,  'neath  thy  rhymes  unreeling, 

And  forms,  long  hid  by  time's  concealing, 

Passed  in  review, 
Unto  my  inner  sense  revealing, 

As  good  as  new. 

Came  back  again  the  warm  emotion, 
The  offspring  of  my  young  devotion, 
When  youth,  then  like  a  smiling  ocean, 

Lay  bathed  in  light, 
And  you  and  I  drank  life's  blest  potion, 

In  care's  despite. 


160          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

\ 

Came  back  the  glow  of  love  fraternal, 
That  then  illumed  our  path  diurnal, 
Filling  our  souls  with  bliss  supernal, 

And  round  us  fell, 
The  while  we  plucked  the  richest  kernel 

From  life's  rough  shell. 

Then  Siloam's  silver  stream,  o'erflowing, 
Ran  sparkling  in  the  sunshine  glowing, 
And  our  young  hearts,  its  virtue  knowing, 

Drank  in  its  tide, 
A  vein  of  early  wisdom  showing, 

Now  viewed  with  pride. 

It  tempered  youth's  impetuous  fever, 
It  prompted  us  to  good  endeavor, 
And  bade  us  low  pursuits  to  sever 

That  end  in  shame  ; 
To  walk  in  virtue's  ways  forever, 

Exempt  from  blame. 

It  taught  us  Charity's  high  mission, 
Controlled  by  scrupulous  prevision  ; 
Led  on  the  mind  to  just  decision 

And  generous  scope, 
And  gave  the  humblest  in  condition 

The  loftiest  hope. 

Ah,  many  years  have  slipped  as  fleetly, 
Since  those  old  days  remembered  meetly, 


A   RESPONSE. 

And  as  your  jingle  met  me  sweetly, 

The  Muse  took  sway, 
And  I,  a  captive  made  completely, 

Was  borne  away. 

How  many  of  the  kindly  hearted, 
Who  with  us  in  the  journey  started, 
Have  on  the  longer  voyage  departed, 

And  left  our  side  ! 
How  many,  ballasted  and  charted, 

Sank  'neath  the  tide  ! 

The  locks  are  gray  that  then  were  shining, 
And  wrinkles  on  the  features  joining, 
And  gout  and  spectacles  combining, 

The  crowd  among ; 
But,  ah  !  the  heart's  warm  tendrils  twining, 

Are  always  young. 

Dear  Jim,  'tis  no  more  summer  weather 

With  any  of  us,  but  together 

We'll  move  with  hearts  of  lightest  feather, 

As  erst  in  youth  ; 
Our  Friendship  bound  with  closest  tether 

In  Love  and  Truth. 


ii 


1 62          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


TO   A   POET. 

[Who,  from  the  fullness  of  his  own  fame  and  genius,  could  recognize  the  clai 
of  a  humble  aspirant,  and  give  him  a  word  of  encouragement] 

A  SINGLE  seed  the  waiting  air 
May  to  some  secret  covert  bear, 
The  sun  and  dew  to  haply  share, 

And,  soon  upsprung, 
It  blooms  in  efflorescence  fair, 

The  grass  among. 

So  a  small  word  in  kindness  said 
Has  to  its  soil  congenial  sped, 
Within  the  heart's  receptive  bed, 

Where,  fondly  held, 
It  grew  the  light  of  joy  to  shed, 

And  gloom  dispelled. 

Such  word  by  loving  lips  conveyed, 
—  Forgotten,  may  be,  soon  as  made,  — 
Falls  like  the  rain  upon  the  blade, 

That,  parched  and  dry, 
Revives  beneath  its  genial  aid, 

To  glad  the  eye. 


TO  A   POET.  163 

It  lifts  the  clouds  that  life  invest, 
It  gives  a  right  ambition  zest, 
Makes  latent  good  more  manifest, 

And  Hope  is  near, 
To  lead  the  soul,  through  pathways  blest, 

To  peace  and  cheer. 

One  such,  by  thee  in  kindness  spoke, 

A  thrill  within  my  heart  awoke, 

—  A  thrill  scarce  other  could  evoke,  — 

And  new-found  powers 
Into  more  earnest  effort  broke, 

In  brighter  hours. 

The  hand  that  feebly  touched  the  lyre 
Felt  in  its  veins  unwonted  fire, 
And  trust  arose,  and  new  desire, 

And  spirit  free, 
Quickening  the  fancy  to  aspire, 

Because  of  thee. 

More  deftly  ran  the  reel  of  rhyme, 
More  softly  flowed  the  measured  chime 
That  with  the  beat  of  thought  kept  time, 

And  though  the  song 
Was  neither  graceful  nor  sublime, 

Its  hope  was  strong. 

Fame's  trumpet  note  may  ne'er  attend, 
To  help  the  struggling  thought  ascend, 
And  with  supernal  glories  blend  ; 


164          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

But,  more  than  this, 
It  to  its  little  sphere  may  lend 
A  world  of  bliss. 

The  humble  brook  its  song  may  pour, 
The  ripple  murmur  on  the  shore, 
The  bird  with  simple  note  upsoar, 

As  perfect  shown, 
As  is  Niagara's  thunder-roar, 

Or  tempest's  tone. 

He  that  may  touch  the  humblest  heart 
By  stroke  of  unassuming  art, 
Acts,  in  degree,  as  grand  a  part 

As  bards  of  might, 
Who  make  the  world's  emotion  start 

And  glow  with  light. 

To  sing  in  gentle,  loving  lays, 
Not  waiting  for  approving  bays, 
Possessed  of  such  sweet  word  of  praise 

As  that  you  spoke, 
Were  better  than  the  grandest  blaze 

That  Fame  e'er  woke. 

Within  my  heart  of  heart  I  hold, 

—  Cherished  more  sacredly  than  gold, — 

That  word  which  made  its  hopes  unfold, 

In  olden  time, 
And  freights  with  gratitude  untold 

My  present  rhyme. 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES.  165 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES, 

[To  H.  A.  McGlenen  on  the  twentieth  anniversary  of  his  marriage,  Novem 
ber  21,  1864. 

A  HAPPY  sign  it  is,  I  wis, 
Where,  as  at  seasons  such  as  this, 
The  feelings  glow  with  primal  bliss, 

And  love,  most  true, 
Asserts  itself,  with  vow  and  kiss, 

As  good  as  new. 

Such  pauses  are  like  stages  passed, 

And  seated  in  life's  shade,  to  cast 

Our  backward  glance  where,  far  and  fast, 

Our  steps  have  sped, 
We  brave  untried  the  Future,  vast, 

Without  a  dread. 

Marriage,  when  "  rightly  understood," 
Old  Cotton  sang,  is  full  of  good ; 
And  yours  is  proof  that  hath  withstood 

The  timely  test, 
And  now,  in  ripe  beatitude, 

It  beams  the  best. 


1 66         LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Happy  are  they  who  thus  restore 

The  time  that's  past,  and  live  once  more 

In  joys  that  strewed  their  path  before, 

In  love's  first  state  ; 
Enough  there  are  who'd  this  ignore, 

And  clean  the  slate. 

And  yet,  that  time  of  twenty  years 
In  most  momentous  guise  appears, 
Marked  with  its  varied  hopes  and  fears. 

And  joy  and  woe  ; 
But  banished  have  been  clouds  and  tears 

In  love's  bright  glow. 

I  know  the  story  all  by  heart, 

And  know  that  she,  your  better  part, 

Has,  by  the  charm  of  woman's  art, 

As  you'll  allow,  — 
Enhanced  life's  joy  and  eased  its  smart, 

As  she  knew  how. 

We  all  the  lesson  well  are  taught 
That  our  endeavors  are  as  nought, 
Unless,  with  loving  kindness  fraught, 

She  gives  her  powers 
Of  gentle  care  and  tender  thought 

To  soften  ours. 

These  give  the  home  its  joyous  zest, 
These  crown  the  life  with  blissful  rest, 


TRIBUTARY   VERSES. 

These  soothe  the  busy,  burdened  breast 

To  tranquil  peace, 
And  cares,  the  soul  might  else  infest, 

Forever  cease. 

And  I  am  of  the  fact  assured, 

That,  taking  things  as  they  occurred, 

The  fun  enjoyed,  the  ills  endured, 

In  time  that's  flown. 
A  good  return  you  have  secured  — 

The  best  one  known 

With  children  gathered  round  your  chair, 
A  wife  your  loving  thoughts  to  share, 
And  friends  in  multitude  most  rare, 

And  honest  fame, 
In  life's  great  bowl  you  hold  a  "  spare," 

And  win  the  game. 

And  thus,  upon  your  festal  night, 
While  happiness  is  burning  bright, 
My  spirit  to  your  side  takes  flight, 

On  viewless  wings, 
And  o'er  the  scene  of  love  and  light 

A  blessing  flings. 


1 68         LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


A  PICTURE. 

I  PAINT  a  man  of  merit  rare, 
With  look  of  grace  and  gentle  air, 
A  presence  welcome  everywhere, 

But  strangely  shy, 
Who  might  earth's  proudest  honors  share, 

Yet  puts  them  by. 

The  discords  of  the  world  offend  ; 

He  has  no  hungry  ear  to  lend 

To  hoarse  refrains  that  to  him  wend 

Of  human  strife, 
Nor  craves  with  noisy  crowds  to  blend 

That  make  up  life. 

He  moves  the  ranks  of  men  among 
With  absent  eye  and  silent  tongue ; 
And  out  where  Nature's  song  is  sung 

By  myriad  choirs, 
The  tuneful  anthem  broadcast  flung 

His  verse  inspires. 


A  PICTURE.  169 

But,  from  the  bustle  of  the  street, 
With  quiet  throned  and  converse  meet, 
Then  flow  his  words  in  channels  sweet, 

With  truth  imbued, 
And  hours  fly  by,  on  pinions  fleet, 

With  bright  flowers  strewed. 

But  his  is  no  exclusive  part ; 

He  feels  for  those  'neath  sorrow's  smart, 

Who  wander  without  guide  or  chart, 

And  strikes  the  strain, 
Till  softened  grows  the  fallow  heart 

That  cold  hath  lain. 

Like  King  Admetus'  bard's,  his  lyre 
Pours  forth  the  strain  that  all  admire, 
And  wakes  in  other  breasts  the  fire 

Of  Hope  and  Love, 
And  bids  the  good  in  man  aspire 

To  scenes  above. 

How  grand  his  strain  of  faith  and  trust 
That  points  the  mourner  from  the  dust 
To  where,  in  airs  more  pure  and  just, 

The  lost  one  waits, 
Where  no  obstruction  mars  nor  rusts 

The  golden  gates ! 

The  dying  outcast's  "  bed  of  stone," 
The  lonely  orphan's  piteous  moan, 
The  soul  from  which  all  hope  has  flown, 
His  pity  wake, 


1 70  LINES  IN  PLEA  SANT  PL  A  CES. 

And  from  his  muse  rare  light  has  shone 
Woe's  clouds  to  break. 

And  royal  verse  has  graced  his  pen, 

Where  true  nobility  in  men 

Has  flashed  athwart  his  vision's  ken, 

And  late  it  shed 
Bright  lustre  on  a  hero,  when 

His  spirit  fled.* 

But  whose  the  portrait?     Does  it  need 
That  line  to  give  the  dullard  heed 
i;This  is  a  man,"  or  some  such  screed, 

To  make  it  clear, 
Or  do  its  manly  lines,  indeed, 

Self-shown  appear? 

Not  one  whose  greatness  fills  the  frame, 
With  nostrils  breathing  fire  and  flame, 
Who  fights,  or  trades,  or  speaks  for  fame, 

Yet  grander  far 
Than  these,  and  more  the  tongue  could  name, 

As  is  a  star. 

*  Farrargut. 


TO    WARRINGTON.  171 


TO   WARRINGTON. 

[Upon  the  occasion  of  the  Silver  Wedding  of  Mr.   and  Mrs.  W.  S.  Robin 
son,  December  i,  1873.] 

MY  dear  old  Paladin  of  Print ! 

I  must  complain  —  the  deuce  is  in't  — 

That  not  a  relic  of  the  mint 

With  me  remains, 
Of  my  affection's  depth  to  hint, 

In  silvery  strains. 

But  no  one  of  your  wedding  guests, 
Whose  gift  his  loving  heart  attests, 
More  in  the  silver  scene  invests 

Than  I,  old  friend  ; 
Though  not  a  stiver  manifests 

For  me  to  send. 

My  heart  is  yours,  this  festive  time, 
As  when,  in  youth's  exuberant  clime, 
We,  side  by  side,  in  aim  sublime, 

Pursued  our  course  ; 
And  STEBBINGS  fired  both  prose  and  rhyme 

Till  they  were  hoarse. 


172          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Since  then  divergently  we've  turned  ; 

In  different  schools  our  tasks  have  learned, 

But  ne'er  that  early  spark  have  spurned 

—  'Bove  party  plight  — 
That  in  its  fealty  has  burned 

With  constant  light. 

I've  loved  your  active  past  to  scan, 

Of  every  movement  in  the  van, 

To  lead,  to  serve  —  to  do,  or  plan  — 

Though  not  with   me  ;  — 
Wearing  that  jewel  best  in  man  — 

Integrity  ! 

Though  striking  trenchantly  thy  hits, 
That  give  contesting  parties  "  fits," 
No  one  who  has  respect  for  wit's 

Performance  rife 
Can  help  admitting,  though  it  grits, 

Its  manly  strife. 

An  honest  purpose  guides  the  blow, 
*          And  public  virtue,  running  slow, 
Like  oil  in  winter,  wakes  to  glow, 

As  falls  the  thong  ; 

And  "  WARRINGTON,"  in  sharpest  show, 
Is  rarely  wrong. 

The  friendship  of  life's  early  hour 
Still  holds  with  unremitting  power, 


TO    WARRINGTON.  173 

And  nought  that  tends  the  heart  to  sour 

Has  hap'd  to  chill 
That  accident-implanted  flower, 

Perennial  still. 

And  so,  in  lieu  of  silver  dimes, 
I  send  a  screed  of  jingling  rhymes 
To  greet  you,  at  this  best  of  times, 

With  wishes  full, 
That,  mingling  with  the  wedding  chimes, 

Mayn't  seem  so  dull. 

Wishes  are  little  worth  at  most ; 

Of  that  which  should  be  but  the  ghost, 

The  creaming  of  a  dinner  toast,  — 

But  still  they  show 
Just  how,  upon  life's  social  coast, 

The  heart  would  go. 

Thus,  wishing  health,  and  wealth,  and  peace, 

And  love's  unlimited  increase, 

And  friendship's  presence  ne'er  to  cease, 

Content  your  lot : 
No  wheel  denied  the  needed  grease, 

And  care  forgot.  — 

Believe  me,  it  is  all  sincere, 
As  if  'twere  backed  by  chinking  u  gear," 
And  in  my  dull  seclusion  here, 

Away  in  this  city, 
I  say,  in  tone  of  heartiest  cheer, 
Beneclicite  ! 


174          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


DR.    HAYES. 

[On  his  departure  for  the  Hyperborean  Regions.] 

UNDOUBTEDLY  great  revelations  wait 

The  search  of  our  indomitable  Hayes, 
Who  boldly  knocketh  at  the  Boreal  gate, 

Ne'er  half  unfolded  to  explorer's  gaze. 
Perhaps  'twill  be  his  enviable  fate 

To  find  what  makes  the  borealis  blaze, 
See  the  big  hole  about  which  Symmes  did  prate, 

That  oped  its  ponderous  jaws  up  thereaways, 
Discover  and  annex  another  state 

That  he  may  govern  some  of  these  odd  days, 
Know  if  the  pole  be  tall  and  very  straight 

About  which  people  long  have  felt  a  craze  ;  — 
An  ice-king  he,  about  whose  regal  pate 

Shall  twine  the  wreath  of  many  Arctic  bays. 

NOTE. —The  prophecy  and  hope  expressed  in  the  above  sonnet  were  as 
nearly  verified  as  could,  or  perhaps  ever  can  be,  and  the  bold  determination,  en 
durance,  and  pluck  of  the  explorer  won  for  him  an  exalted  place  among  the 
brave  spirits  who  have  dared  the  same  perils  that  he  encountered. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


"75 


WHAT   MAN   DON'T   KNOW. 

How  much  men  know  !     'Tis  a  constant  brag, 

And  Science  puts  on  a  thousand  airs, 
As  she  points  to  the  bright  advancing  flag 

That  the  names  of  her  many  conquests  bears  ; 
But  though  they  are  grand  as  grand  can  be, 

And  such  vast  acqusitions  show, 
They  are  but  drops  to  the  infinite  sea 

Of  other  things  that  men  don't  know. 

Savants  may  turn  their  eyes  to  the  stars, 

And  scan  the  wonders  depicted  there  ; 
How  brief  the  limit  their  vision  bars 

In  those  ample  spaces  of  upper  air ! 
They  may  dig  deep  down  in  the  venous  earth, 

And  weigh  each  grain  of  the  waiting  ground, 
But  they  puzzle  over  the  vagrant  birth 

Of  a  chance-sown  seed  in  its  dark  profound. 

They  may  read  the  track  of  the  craving  tide 
That  fritters  away  the  sturdy  rock, 

But  mightier  mysteries  abide 

Their  pygmy  eftbrts  may  not  unlock  ; 

12  177 


178          LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

They  may  scale  the  mountain,  and  sink  the  nine, 
May  measure  distance,  and  vastness  scan  ; 

They  know  not  whence  is  the  diamond's  shine, 
Nor  read  in  Nature  her  humblest  plan. 

And,  amid  the  ranks  of  men,  how  dim 

Is  human  vision  to  reach  afar ! 
Man's  brightest  glory  is  but  a  glim, 

To  boast  the  merit  of  being  a  star  ! 
Along  his  journey  he  haltingly  gropes, 

With  doubtful  footsteps  and  doubtful  bent ; 
His  life  composed  of  guesses  and  hopes, 

In  airs  of  weakness  and  discontent. 

With  yearning  heart,  and  with  onward  glance, 

He  presses  along  for  the  hidden  goal, 
Unknowing  whether  each  step's  advance 

May  give  him  pleasure  or  give  him  dole  — 
Not  knowing  if  coming  time  will  bestow 

A  bed  of  thorns,  or  of  flowery  ease  ; 
Revealing  how  much  he  doesn't  know, 

But  doing  the  best  as  far  as  he  sees. 

Even  the  cup  of  his  thirsty  need 

—  Beaming  with  seeming  truth  and  love  — 
lie  shrinks  from  tasting,  with  cautious  heed, 

Lest  bitter  the  tempting  beaker  prove. 
No  finger  to  point,  no  tongue  to  tell, 

His  longing  soul  the  way  to  pursue, 
He  loiters,  and  ponders  deep  and  well, 

With  a  doleful  sigh,  "  If  I  only  knew  !  " 


WHAT  MAN  DON'T  KNOW.  179 

But  moving  along,  by  faith  imbued, 

Though  dark  the  way,  it  is  ever  right ; 
E'en  though  not  seeing  the  sweet  flowers  strewed, 

They  send  up  fragrance  to  give  delight ; 
Our  hand  firm  clasped  in  the  Hand  unseen, 

We  catch  the  note  of  a  distant  song, 
And  onward  move  to  the  pastures  green, 

Where  the  sight  is  clear  and  the  day  is  long. 


l8o          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


MY   EARLY   LOVE. 

[On  a  Picture.] 

SWEET  effigy  of  one  remote, 

'Neath  brighter,  fairer  skies  than  ours, 
'Mid  atmospheres  that  round  thee  float 

Through  old  Seville's  enchanted  bowers. 

Thy  face  restores  those  golden  times 

When,  by  thy  side,  in  tranquil  weather, 

We  sung  our  songs  and  read  our  rhymes 
In  sweetest  harmony  together. 

Thine  eyes,  upturned  with  love  to  mine, 
Thrilled  me  with  feeling  true  and  tender 

They  seemed  like  lights  upon  a  shrine, 
Illuming  with  a  gentle  splendor;  — 

And  from  the  bright  pellucid  beam 

That  flashed  in  their  resplendent  glory, 

I  caught  the  flame  that  lit  my  dream  — 
A  chapter  of  the  same  old  story  1 


MY  EARLY  LOVE.  181 

Thy  lips,  twin  rosebuds,  breathing  sweet, 
Bewitched  me  with  their  ripe  caressing; 

I  placed  my  heart  beneath  thy  feet, 

And  time  was  joy,  and  life  was  blessing. 

That  brow,  the  throne  of  sovereign  mind, 
Lies  calm  as  summer  lake  at  even, 

Reflecting  in  its  field  refined 

The  beauties  of  the  over-heaven. 

I  lived  in  bliss  —  a  halcyon  craze  ; 

Ah,  sad  the  hour  of  truth's  unsealing ! 
Hope  vanished  like  a  morning  haze, 

And  left  me  but  the  pain  of  feeling. 

A  dream,  a  vision  of  the  night, 

A  fond  illusion,  tinged  with  roses  — 

All  with  the  morning  taking  flight, 
That  memory  alone  discloses. 

Hers  not  the  fault,  nor  mine  the  fault, 

But  inauspicious  fortune,  rather, 
Fate's  mandate  bade  proceedings  halt, 

And  that  same  fate  my  darling's  father ! 

He  loved  me  not,  and  when  aware 
Of  what  comprised  the  "  situation," 

He  drove  us  to  supreme  despair 
By  his  tempestuous  objurgation. 


182          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

He  vowed  he'd  make  my  love  a  nun, 

And  me  —  the  thought  e'en  now  amazes  ! 

Should  I  across  his  hawser  run, 

He  swore  he'd  wallop  me  like  blazes ! 

Thus  pressed,  were  we  compelled  to  part 
By  that  old  pirate's  interdiction  ; 

And  this  true  story  of  the  heart 
May  waken  tears  at  my  affliction. 


DEBILITr  OF   THE  HEART.  183 


DEBILITY   OF   THE   HEART. 


[In  the  case  of  a  poor  woman  found  dead  in  South  Street  Court,  Boston,  the 
coroner's  jury  returned  the  verdict,  "  Died  from  debility  of  the  heart."] 


DYING,  dying,  every  day, 

In  hidden  place  and  by  the  way  : 

Where  Pleasure's  giddy  votaries  throng, 

Where  Misery  applies  its  thong, 

Where  smiles  light  up  the  speaking  face, 

Where  Fortune  yields  its  richest  grace, 

Debility  of  heart  has  sway  : 

Dying,  dying,  every  day  ! 

O,  who  may  know  the  pangs  that  wait 
On  human  hearts  disconsolate  !  — 
Unyielding,  unremitting  pain, 
That  tears  may  strive  to  drown  in  vain  ; 
Hope  all  crushed  out,  the  feelings  lone, 
Life  but  an  incubus  of  stone  ; 
No  lift  to  clouds  of  drear  dismay  : 
Dying,  dying,  every  day  ! 

Hidden  the  barb  that  gives  the  wound, 
No  eye  may  pierce  the  deep  profound 


184          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

To  where  the  cankering  spirit  lies, 
Concealed  'neath  insincerities  ; 
Feigning  that  it  cannot  feel 
Beneath  the  rack's  tormenting  wheel ; 
Fretting  its  very  life  away  — 
Dying,  dying,  every  day  ! 

How  many  hands  are  stilly  pressed 

Upon  the  aching,  wounded  breast  3 

Unvoiced  the  bitterness  that  reigns, 

No  solace  for  abiding  pains, 

Which,  banked  below,  must  yield  no  trace 

To  show  in  sorrow  on  the  face  ; 

And  thus,  though  seeming  calm  and  gay, 

Dying,  dying,  every  day  ! 

"  Debility  of  heart !  "  God  knows 
The  depth  and  breadth  of  human  woes, 
Though  mortal  eyes  may  never  see 
The  secret  springs  of  misery. 
And  may  God  help  the  ones  who  feel 
The  pangs  of  Grief's  envenomed  steel, 
From  which,  whatever  cause  it  may, 
The  poor  and  rich  die  every  day. 


BUT:    A    TRUTH  IN  HINDOSTAN.        185 


BUT:    A   TRUTH   IN   HINDOSTAN. 

THE  Nabob  wakes,  and  the  golden  ray, 
Upflushing  from  the  kindling  day, 
Fills  him  with  pride,  such  pomp  to  see, 
Greeting  a  nabob  grand  as  he  ! 
BUT  the  Light,  impartial,  seeks,  as  well, 
The  burdened  sudra's  darkened  cell, 
By  Brahma  sent,  whose  tender  care 
Gives  rich  and  poor  an  equal  share. 

The  Nabob  feels  the  breezes  blow, 

Cool  from  the  Himalayan  snow. 

And  bares  his  brow,  in  his  vision  dim, 

Deeming  the  blessing  all  for  him  ! 

BUT  the  Air,  on  loving  mission,  seeks 

The  swart-browed  laborer's  burning  cheeks, 

And  sports  and  plays  with  Poverty's  child, 

As  if  rare  gems  around  it  smiled. 

The  Nabob  walks  in  the  burning  sun, 
And  marks  his  shadow  before  him  run  ; 
Lifting  his  head,  with  pride,  to  see 
Reflected  his  rich  pomposity  ! 


1 86          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

BUT  the  Sun  as  kindly  scatters  down 
His  beams  for  him  in  the  beggar's  gown, 
And  the  turban  coarse  and  the  turban  fine 
Reflect  the  same  in  his  lavish  shine. 

The  Nabob  loves  with  a  warmer  glow 
Than  pulses  of  common  blood  can  know ; 
Rare  gifts,  rare  offerings,  attest 
His  love  to  be,  over  all,  the  best ! 
BUT  the  Heart  with  equal  fervor  teems, 
If  high  or  low,  with  tender  dreams, 
And  all  that  wealth  has  e'er  confest 
Is  felt  the  same  in  the  humblest  breast. 

The  Nabob  dies,  and  what  parade 
Above  his  prostrate  form  is  made ! 
Sure,  earth  is  honored  to  hold  in  trust 
The  treasure  of  such  distinguished  dust ! 
BUT  the  Grave  —  the  Grave  —  no  favor  shows 
To  rich  or  poor  —  to  friends  or  foes  — 
And  the  lowliest  dust  in  flowers  may  spring, 
As  fair  as  though  it  had  formed  a  king. 


IL   REUMATICO    TO   HIS  PIPE.  187 


IL   REUMATICO   TO    HIS    PIPE. 

"•  SAW    HIM." 

UTHE  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate'' 

—  Of  poignancies  rheumatic  and  the  ills 

Attendant,  that  obtrude  to  try  and  vex, 

With  direful  visitings,  the  weary  life,  — 

Is  redolent  with  odors  of  Tabac 

And  liniments  unguental  that  assail 

The  nostrils  with  a  sharp  appeal,  until 

Sternutatory  echoes  wake  therein, 

And  oft  a  word  suggestive  not  of  prayer ! 

That  meerschaum  there,  by  generous  friendship  sent, 

Is  potent  in  its  ministries  when  twinge 

Spasmodic  racks  the  suffering  frame  : 

Then,  when  the  paroxysms  come,  filled  up 

With  fragrant  u  Durham,"  and  the  match 

Applied,  ascends  the  curling  phantom-cloud, 

And  mitigates  the  toe  it  may  not  heal. 

Divine  Tabac  !     There  be  who  rail  at  thee, 

And  call  thee  vile  ;  but,  O,  'mid  surging  pangs, 

How  sweet  the  blast  that  calm  nepenthe  gives, 

Emollient  to  pain's  pervading  thrill, 


1 88          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Which  bounds  like  lightningo'er  the  trembling  nerves! 

—  The  soul's  surcease  from  brooding  misery. 

Give  me  my  meerschaum  at  a  time  like  this, 

And  any  one  may  take  the  doctor's  stuff. 

I  cry,  as  pangs  obtrusive  start  along 

The  vibrant  cords,  "  Ache,  do  your  very  worst ; 

If  you  can  stand  it,  I  can,  thus  prepared, 

And  hence  defy  you  !  "     So  the  solace  comes, 

And  for  the  season  sweet  relief  obtains. 

Out  through  the  window,  on  the  busy  town, 

I  sit  and  gaze  in  pedal  helplessness, 

Envious  of  those  who  lofty  ladders  climb  ; 

Or  urchins  there  who  dart  along  the  way, 

In  ragged  galligaskins,  with  their  sleds  ; 

E'en  of  the  dogs,  rude  exponents  of  health, 

Who  tantalize  me  with  their  boisterous  glee. 

Give  me  my  meerschaum,  Nannie,  and  anon, 

Through  coyish  openings  in  the  vapory  veil, 

I'll  see  creation  in  another  guise  — 

All  softened  to  a  calm,  and  harmony, 

Most  sweet,  restored  betwixt  the  world  and  me. 

Run,  climb,  and  wrestle,  ye  athletes;   to  me 

'Tis  vulgar  thus  to  waste  the  vital  powers, 

While  I  upon  the  smoke  can  soar  away 

In  ampler  ethers,  where  sweet  flowers  exhale, 

And  airs  celestial  waft  their  breezes  o'er 

Perennial  beds  of  amaranthine  bloom  ! 

No  ladder  rounds  can  climb  as  high  as  this ; 

No  urchin  scale  this  summit  with  his  sled, 

To  slide  recumbent  to  the  earth  again ; 

No  step  profane  the  precinct  honoring  me. 


IL  REUMATICO    TO  HIS  PIPE.  189 

Friend  and  companion  of  my  youth  !  —  fire-tried 

And  singed  by  visitation  scoriae  — 

The  fiery  trial  thou  hast  sent  to  me 

More  grateful  is  than  fruit  of  orient  climes, 

In  whose  mild  sacrifice  my  heart  delights, 

—  Maugre  the  protest  of  attendant  femmes, — 

And  azure  demons,  exorcised,  depart, 

As  on  the  ambient  air  the  incense  floats 

From  this  my  censer,  eloquent  with  thee. 

I  wave  my  crutch  in  benison,  and,  renewed, 

Hope  tells  the  "  flat-iron  tale"  of  life  again, 

And  steps  that  halt  not  with  the  ball  and  chain 

Of  fierce  distemper  which  now  hold  me  fast. 

And  thus  I  "  puff,"  with  gratitude  sincere, 

The  genius  of  the  hour  —  my  BANFIELD  pipe. 


190          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


TRUST. 

ON  the  chilly  morn  of  an  April  day, 

In  their  beds  the  small  plants  shivering  lay, 

The  biting  wind  from  the  northern  hills 

Filled  their  tender  forms  with  ague  chills, 

And  they  scarcely  dared  unfold  their  eyes, 

Though  the  season  said  'twas  time  to  rise. 

At  length,  though  purpling  with  the  cold, 

A  Crocus  peeped  from  beneath  the  mould. 

And  waked  a  Narcissus,  sleeping  near, 

By  shaking  icicles  in  its  ear. 

"  Say,"  said  the  Crocus,  "  shall  we  start?  " 

Narcissus  said  feebly,  "  I  haven't  the  heart, 

And,  should  this  cold  much  longer  hap, 

/  shall  extend  my  winter  nap." 

A  Hyacinth,  hearing  the  sound,  awoke, 

And  thus  with  a  chattering  accent  spoke : 

"  Let  us  lie  in  our  beds,  since  Nature  forgets, 

And  comfort  ourselves  with  our  coverlets, 

I  for  one  will  never  get  up 

While  the  air  is  so  cold  ;  it  will  freeze  my  cup." 

A  little  Anemone  trembling  lay, 

Thinking  of  what  it  heard  them  say. 


TRUST..  19I 

u  True,"  it  said,  u  the  wind  is  fierce, 
And  sharply  the  tender  buds  doth  pierce, 
But  let  us  be  up  with  cheerful  trust, 
And  shake  from  our  eyes  obscuring  dust, 
That  keeps  us  from  seeing  good  in  store 
In  our  present  moody  feelings  sore  — 
For  release  will  come,  and  the  gentle  rain 
And  the  golden  sun  will  cheer  again ; 
Although  withholden,  have  no  fear, 
The  glory  of  spring  will  soon  be  here. 
Then  let  us  shoot  our  pistils  all, 
Nor  wait  to  receive  a  second  call." 
The  faith  of  the  little  Anemone 
Quickened  the  floral  family, 
And  'twere  a  wonder  if  spring's  gay  bowers 
Were  not  all  bright  with  buds  and  flowers. 
How  often  will  raise  us  from  the  dust 
One  little  word  of  hope  and  trust ! 


192          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THANKSGIVING   TIME. 

"  COME,  let  us  give  thanks," 

Says  Governor  Banks,* 
And  at  once  preparation  is  heard  in  all  ranks. 

Many  and  bright  the  scenes  that  are  planned, 

Many  the  hearts  that  with  gladness  expand, 

Many  the  hopes  with  fruition  at  hand, 
And  the  voice  of  the  turkey  is  heard  in  the  land  ' 

For  Thanksgiving  Day 

Is  welcomed  alway, 
—  A  heart-warming,  genial,  glorious  season, — 

When  the  feelings,  repressed 

By  traffic's  behest, 

On  one  day,  at  least,  for  dominion  contest, 

And  strive  as  of  old  to  be  specially  blest, 
While  care  is  a  species  of  treason  ; 

When  plenty  and  fun  and  plenty  of  fun 

Mark  the  glad  hours  as  onward  they  run 
With  lots  of  rhyme  and  reason. 

The  city  shuts  up  shop  for  the  day, 
And  oldest  and  youngest  play  or  pray, 

*  Any  other  governor's  name  will  do  as  well,  provided  that  it  rhymes. 


THANKSGIVING    TIME.  193 

The  churches  are  oped  in  the  ancient  way 
For  preachers  to  titter  whatever  they  may, 
With  few  to  listen  to  what  they  say, 

While  all  the  chaises  and  carriages 
Are  dashing  around  with  merry  loads 
Of  babies  dressed  in  their  prettiest  modes, 
To  dump  at  the  doors  of  kindred  abodes, 
Or  filled  with  those  still  happier  nodes 
Who  rush  to  try  that  best  of  codes 

Which  binds  us  up  in  marriages. 
And  true  benevolence  outpours, 
And  wealth  disseminates  its  stores, 

To  glad  the  poor  and  stricken ; 
With  dimming  eyes,  from  tears  that  start, 
The  generous  ones  their  cheer  impart, 
With  warm  emotion  in  their  heart, 

While  in  their  hands  is  chicken  ! 

Now  trunks  are  stowed, 
And  over  the  road 
That  leads  to  his  old  far-away  abode 
The  son  in  his  course  is  bendin^ ; 

&    ' 

His  heart  beats  high 

As  that  home  draws  nigh, 

And  he  sees  against  the  distant  sky 

The  village  spire  ascending; 
While  many  a  glance 
Is  cast  askance 
Over  the  road,  as  the  hours  advance, 

By  which  he  must  be  wending  — 
The  dear  boy  Tim, 


194          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Or  the  dear  boy  Jim, 

No  matter  the  name,  they  look  for  him, 

Their  love  impatience  lending  !  — 
Or  'Liza  Jane  returns  from  town, 
With  her  nobby  bonnet  and  silken  gown, 
And  then  a  hoop  to  take  all  down 

That  may  chance  to  come  before  her, 
Raising  the  envy  of  all  of  those 
Not  able  to  get  such  spacious  clo'es, 
Who  sneer,  perhaps,  and  turn  up  their  nose, 
While  she  takes  the  eye  of  the  rural  beaux, 

Who  vow  that  "  she's  a  roarer  !  " 
—  Perhaps  Aurora  is  what  they  mean  — 
They  bow  to  the  magic  of  crinoline, 
And  were  she  goddess  or  were  she  queen 

They  couldn't  more  adore  her. 
They  swow  and  snum,  and  vow  and  vum, 
That  they're  darned  glad  she's  happened  hum, 
And  go  away  she  shan't,  by  gum, 

For  them  to  so  deplore  her  ! 

Delicious  meetings, 
Delicious  greetings 
As  saccharine  as  Harvest  Sweetings, 

With  such  affectionate  pother ! 
Where  brothers  and  sisters  in  fond  embrace 
Press  heart  to  heart  and  face  to  face, 
And  kisses  are  given,  with  unctuous  grace, 

That  threaten  almost  to  smother ; 
And  cousins  are  kissed  with  sweet  concern, 
Who  do  not  pout  and  spitefully  spurn, 


THANKSGIVING    TIME.  195 

But  who,  when  kissed  on  one  cheek,  turn 
With  Christian  grace  the  other ! 

The  mother's  tears  descend  like  rain 

To  welcome  her  darlings  back  again  ; 

The  thought  of  their  perils  has  given  her  pain, 

And  the  father's  heart  was  sad  ; 
But  the  face  is  honest,  the  eye  is  bright, 
And  they  read  the  open  book  aright, 
That  sin  has  not  eclipsed  the  light 

That  made  their  hearts  once  glad. 

The  horse  in  the  stall,  the  dog  at  the  door, 
Are  loved,  and  caressed,  and  kissed  once  more, 

And  smiles  are  joyously  beaming, 
And  the  pullets,  destined  for  them  to  die, 
Look  on  the  scene  with  a  cheerful  eye, 

In  sympathetic  seeming. 

The  land  is  vocal  with  psalm  and  prayer, 
And  joy's  glad  note  sounds  everywhere 

A  festival  oblation, 
And  savory  steams  like  clouds  arise, 
To  tickle  the  palate  and  glad  the  eyes 
Of  lovers  of  virtue  and  pumpkin  pies, 
Where  grave  and  gay,  and  dull  and  wise, 

Pay  tribute  to  gustation. 

Then  welcome  the  day, 
As  well  we  may, 
That  drives  from  our  hearts  dull  care  away, 


196          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Renewing  the  bond 

Of  affection  fond 

In  hearts  where  living  instincts  play, 
As  crannies  are  lit  by  the  sun's  glad  ray. 

And  may  our  hearts  in  praise  expand 
Of  the  blessed  God  of  the  sea  and  land, 
Whose  ever-bounteous,  loving  hand 
Has  placed  such  blessings  at  our  command, 
And  given  us  power  to  gratefully  feel 
The  good  that  all  our  days  reveal ; 

And  Governor  Banks's 

Call  for  thanks  is 
One  we  cheerfully  obey, 
And  thankful  feel  Thanksgiving  Day. 


SNOWED  IN.  197 


SNOWED   IN. 

[A  description  of  a  personal  adventure  in  Pennsylvania,  on  Pokono  Mountain.] 

ON  Pokono,  with  storm  and  darkness  blent, 

The  winds  in  chorus  howling  round  the  summit, 

We  labored  'gainst  the  snow  up  the  ascent, 
With  futile  offering  to  overcome  it. 

The  hurtling  drift  dashed  madly  'gainst  the  pane, 

As  if  to  overwhelm  us  its  endeavor, 
While  surged  the  car  beneath  the  fearful  strain, 

As  though  it  yielded  to  some  mighty  lever. 

Dimly  the  lights  shone  through  the  brooding  gloom, 
And  eyes  looked  into  eyes  with  anxious  glances, 

As,  like  the  knell  of  an  impending  doom, 

The  hoarse  storm  led  the  measure  of  our  fancies. 

Like  sheeted  ghosts  the  snow-clouds  sped  along 
Before  the  icy  wind's  remorseless  urging, 

shrieked  discordant,  like  a  madman's  song, 
Threating  our  instantaneous  submerging. 


198          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

How  dreary  passed  the  hours  !  —  no  note  of  cheer 
Gave  hope  the  spur,  and  every  lagging  minute 

Was  fraught  with  pending  misery  and  fear, 
And  every  breath  bore  desperation  in  it. 

Philosophy  was  vain  ;  we  could  not  bear 

The  vexed  delay  that  in  such  durance  held  us, 

Yet  could  not  help  ourselves,  whatever  our  care, 
And  bore,  unbearing,  as  stern  Fate  compelled  us. 

At  last,  amid  the  gloom  that  reigned  around, 
Hope  reared  anew  its  dear,  inspiring  banner, 

And  music  rested  in  the  voice's  sound 

That  spoke  of  sweet  release  and  TOBYHANNA.* 

Terra  incognita  !  —  a  land  unknown  — 

But,  O,  how  sweet  the  cadence  to  our  hearing ! 

We  felt  our  burden  suddenly  o'erthrown, 
With  Joy  and  Plenty  for  our  rescue  nearing. 

Blest  land  of  hope  !  how  bright  to  us  it  seemed  !  — 
Even  its  name  uncouth  made  prepossessing ; 

No  more  the  piling  snow  we  misery  deemed 
With  Tobyhanna  its  pretensions  pressing. 

And  then,  as  if  responsive  to  our  prayer, 

There  fell  a  sudden  calm,  the  tempest  quelling; 

And  the  round  moon,  upon  the  tranquil  air, 

Shone  forth,  all  shapes  of  fear  and  gloom  dispelling. 

*  A  small  mountain  village. 


SNOWED   IN.  199 

Once  more  the  wheels,  obedient  to  the  steam. 

Moved  o'er  the  rail  in  their  accustomed  manner, 
Bearing  us  towards  the  object  of  our  dream, 

The  coveted  and  bounteous  Tobyhanna. 

And  soon,  surrounded  by  a  generous  band. 
With  plenty  laden,  we  forgot  our  panic 

In  luxury,  the  product  of  the  land, 

Possessed  of  appetite  the  most  titanic. 

The  feasts  ambrosial  of  the  heathen  gods 

Were  great  affairs,  as  told  by  classic  scribblers, 

But  Tobyhanna  gave  Olympus  odds, 

And,  matched  with  us,  the  gods  were  merely  nib- 
biers. 

As  when  the  Jews  passed  through  the  wilderness, 
And,  famishing,  were  fed  by  heavenly  manna, 

So  on  our  palates,  with  all  power  to  bless, 
Fell  the  rich  benefit  of  Tobyhanna. 

And  memory  '11  grow  blind,  and  deaf,  and  dumb, 
And  lost  to  every  sense  of  grateful  feeling, 

If  ever,  in  the  time  that  is  to  come, 

It  should  forget  that  incident  congealing,  — 

When,  merging  from  the  snows  of  Pokono, 
With  joyous  lips  in  jubilant  hosanna, 

We  felt  the  fires  of  reassurance  glow 

Within  the  sheltering  arms  of  Tobyhanna. 


200          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


AFFECTION'S   TRIBUTE. 

'TWAS  busy  seed  time,  yet  in  many  a  field 

Labor  was  stayed,  and  those  whose  sturdy  hands 

Beckoned  to  thrift  by  timely  ministries 

Had  left  their  calling,  and,  in  decent  garb, 

Thronged  onward,  where  the  melancholy  bell 

Proclaimed  the  doings  of  relentless  Death  ; 

To  give  their  sympathy  to  those  who  mourned, 

And  shed,  themselves,  a  tributary  tear, 

For  one  among  them,  who  had  bowed  his  head 

To  the  stern  summons,  painfully  delayed. 

And  then,  amid  the  blooming  sweets  of  spring  — 

The  trees  unfolding  in  the  bright  array 

That  clothes  the  joyous  season  —  swept  along 

The  sombre  hearse,  and  the  long  train  of  those 

Who  mourned,  as  relatives  and  friends,  for  him 

Whose  loving  eyes  had  closed  to  scenes  of  earth, 

To  open  on  the  brighter  ones  of  heaven. 

They  came  from  far  and  near,  tender  and  sad, 

The  last  kind  offices  on  earth  to  pay, 

And  Nature  seemed  to  hush,  and  hold  her  breath, 

As  on  the  solemn  pageant  swept,  to  where 

The  grave  was  waiting,  and  funereal  rites. 

It  was  no  hero  that  they  honored  thus  — 


AFFECTION'S    TRIBUTE.  20 1 

No  statesman,  scholar,  bard,  nor  one  whose  voice 
Had  thrilled  the  public  ear  by  trick  of  words  ; 
Nor  one  who'd  thrust  himself  before  the  gaze 
Of  crowds  to  win  fame's  meed  by  other  means. 
A  simple  farmer  —  this,  and  nothing  more  — 
An  unpretending,  plain,  and  honest  man, 
With  no  ill  brooding  in  his  truthful  heart, 
And  none  to  utter  by  his  manly  lips : 
Loving  the  good,  and  doing  good  and  true 
In  all  his  dealings  with  his  fellow-man. 
I  gazed  upon  the  pageant,  and  of  one 
Who  was  of  those  that  formed  the  waiting  group, 
I  asked  the  meaning  of  the  tribute  shown  — 
Tempting  the  answer  that  I  knew  before  : 
"  Why  this  display  of  grief?  "  I  said,  "  for  him 
Whose  lot  was  cast  in  such  a  homely  mould? 
Why  do  the  farmers  leave  their  fields  for  this?" 
He  was  a  man  uncouth  —  to  sentiment  unused  — 
But,  brushing  off  a  tear  that  dimmed  his  eye, 
He  said,  half  sternly,  "  Why,  the  fact  is  here  ; 
We  honor  pay,  because  we  loved  him  so." 
Ye  grand  and  mighty,  where  is  honor  found, 
So  glorious  in  its  offerings,  as  this, 
That  rests  its  giving  on  the  simple  claim 
For  honor's  tribute  that  it  loveth  so? 


202  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


CHRISTMAS. 

THE  tranquil  stars  shone  on  the  plain 

Where  "shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night," 
When  broke  from  heaven  that  wondrous  strain, 

And  flashed  abroad  that  wondrous  light, 

Filling  their  humble  souls  with  fright: 
"  Peace,  peace  on  earth  !     To  men  good  will !  " 

So  rang  the  strain,  and  angels  bright 
Sounded  God's  glory,  that  did  thrill 

With  glad  accord  of  sound  and  sight.  — 

u  Good  tidings  of  great  joy  we  bring, 

For  Christ  the  Lord  is  born  to-day! 
He  is  your  Saviour,  and  your  King !  " 

Then  vanished  into  heaven  away 

The  angelic  host,  and  darkness  lay 
On  the  calm  hills  and  streams  around, 

While,  dazed  with  the  sublime  display, 
The  shepherds  bowed  in  awe  profound. 

Not  to  the  magi  first  it  came; 

The  shepherds  caught  the  earliest  word, 
And  in  the  flood  of  song  and  flame 

Beheld  the  glory  of  the  Lord  !  — 


CHRISTMAS.  203 

The  learned  and  grand  their  tribute  showered, 
But  first  received,  the  poor  man's  gift 

Of  worship,  that  unstinted  poured 
From  hearts  with  joyousness  uplift. 

The  angel  message  rings  the  earth, 

The  good  news  to  its  triumph  speeds ; 
New  truths  of  "  good  to  men  "  have  birth, 

Response  to  prayer  of  human  needs. 

Though  Truth  be  poor,  and  pines  and  bleeds, 
Its  saving  mission  will  not  die  ; 

It  springs  again,  and  yet  succeeds, 
To  work  in  good  its  ministry. 

The  same  grand  message  from  the  sky, 

The  same  old  glory  greets  the  ken  ; 
All  "  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 

And  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men !  " 

The  truth,  in  Christ,  renews  again, 
With  every  effort  man  to  bless, 

And  His  embodiment  is  plain 
In  all  enacted  righteousness. 

E'en  now,  as  then,  the  humble  mind 

Sees  the  first  coming  from  afar  ; 
The  magi  seek  the  babe  to  find 

And  follow  his  directing  star ; 

And  Herods  of  the  race  still  are, 
Who  tremble  at  the  growth  of  Truth, 

And  wickedly  its  course  would  bar 
By  killing  it  in  early  youth. 


204         LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Christ's  truth  shall  grow  to  strive  and  bless, 

Till  all  the  world  its  worth  shall  know, 
And  every  tongue  its  power  confess, 

And  earth  redeemed  its  triumphs  show  ; 

Then  once  again  the  strain  shall  flow- 
That  tells  of  peace  through  victory  won, 

And  every  human  heart  shall  glow 
With  joy  in  Mary's  holy  Son. 

Thank  God  for  Christmas  !  —  'tis  a  boon  — 

A  precious  stopping-place  in  time  ; 
The  heart,  with  peace  and  love  attune, 

Glads  with  the  note  of  Christmas  chime. 

In  every  land,  in  every  clime, 
This  day  all  discord  under  ban, 

Is  heard  the  symphony  sublime  — 
Of  u  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man  ! " 


THE   OLD   SEXTON.  205 


THE  OLD   SEXTON. 

THE  news  comes  sadly  to  our  ears  — 

The  good  old  man  has  flown, 
Who  long  hath  furnished  other's  biers, 

And  now  hath  filled  his  own  ! 
In  Death's  employ  his  lot  was  cast, 

—  Prime  minister  of  woe  — 
And  sore  it  grieves  us  at  the  last, 

That  we  shall  look  on  the  face  of  the  Old  Sexton 
no  mo. 

A  rough  and  rugged  man  was  he, 

—  A  man  of  sturdy  mould, — 
One  might  not  from  the  surface  see 

The  feeling  that  controlled  ; 
But  all  of  woman's  tenderness 

Dwelt  in  the  heart  below, 
As  hundreds  he  has  soothed  confess, 
Who  will   look  on   the   face   of  the  Old   Sexton 
no  mo. 

Where  Death  his  fatal  dart  has  thrown, 
His  was  the  tender  task 


206         LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

To  do  the  last  sad  office  known 

Humanity  might  ask. 
What  feeling  care,  what  gentle  grace 

Did  he  alway  bestow  ! 
Ah,  many  sigh,  who  this  retrace, 
That    they'll  look  on   the    face    of  the  Old    Sexton 
no  mo. 

He  had  few  words  withal  to  soothe, 

But  they  were  of  the  best, 
That  served  the  waves  of  grief  to  smooth, 

And  comfort  the  distrest ; 
But  action  more  than  word  declared 

His  kindly  feeling's  flow, 
And  sadder  they,  whose  grief  he's  shared, 
That   they'll   behold    the    face    of  the    Old   Sexton 
no  mo. 

Where  grief  in  ostentatious  guise 

Demanded  proud  display, 
He'd  to  the  great  occasion  rise 

In  a  befitting  way  ; 
Who've  seen  him  wave  the  bannered  pall, 

And  ope  Death's  portmanteau,* 
Will  sigh,  as  they  his  form  recall, 
That    they    shall    see    the    face    of  the  Old    Sexton 


*  A  jointed  trestle,  made  to  fold  in  the  form  of  a  portmanteau,  used  on  pub 
lic  occasions. 


THE    OLD   SEXTON.  207 

The  strong,  the  weak,  the  old,  the  young, 

Like  objects  of  his  care, 
He  made  no  difference  among, 
Nor  'twixt  the  plain  and  fair  ; 
Impartially  he  gave  them  room 
Beneath  the  flowers  or  snow, 
And  mourners  over  many  a  tomb 
Will   sigh   that  they   shall  look  on  the  Old  Sexton 
no  mo. 

Impartial  minister  of  fate, 

The  high  and  low  he  served  ; 
Insignia  or  costly  plate 

Him  ne'er  from  duty  swerved. 
He  closed  from  sight  with  equal  care 

The  rich  and  poor  in  woe, 
And  all  will  in  the  sorrow  share 
That  they'll  look  on   the  face  of  the   Old   Sexton 
no  mo. 

And  now  he's  gone  —  the  pitying  earth 

Has  closed  above  his  breast ; 
The  flowers  will  soon  spring  into  birth, 

And  bloom  above  his  rest ; 
While  we  above  his  dust  shall  say, 

As  breezes  whisper  low, 
"Ah,  sad  'twill  be,  and  well  it  may, 
For   we   shall  look   on  the  face  of  the  Old  Sexton 
no  mo. 


208          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


STRAWBERRIES. 

IN  the  old-time  summer  day, 
Cheerily  we  took  our  way 
To  the  meadows,  where  we  knew 
Ripe  and  luscious  strawberries  grew, 
Nodding  on  their  bending  stems 
With  the  glow  of  beryl  gems. 
Bobolink,  with  angry  tone, 
Claimed  the  berries  as  his  own, 
While  the  Robin,  perching  near, 
Piped  his  protest,  sharp  and  clear, 
Telling  us,  in  accents  plain, 
We  infringed  on  his  domain  ! 

Then  how  sweet  the  breezes  were, 
Blowing  through  our  unkempt  hair  ! 
And  the  breath  of  clover  bloom 
Lent  its  burden  of  perfume, 
And  the  hum  of  busy  bees 
Swelled  the  choral  symphonies, 
As  we  through  the  meadows  went, 
On  our  strawberries  intent. 


STRAWBERRIES.  2O9 

Such  companionship  we  knew, 
In  that  day  of  pleasure,  too ! 
No  such  friends  in  later  days 
As  those  partners  in  our  plays. 
True,  unselfish,  earnest,  free, 
A  united  band  were  we. 
We  were  many,  bound  as  one, 
In  the  unity  of  fun. 

The  world  has  drawn  us,  since,  apart, 
•  And  chilled  the  ardor  of  the  heart ; 
Yet  one  tie  asserts  its  claim  : 
Strawberries  we  love  the  same, 
As  we  picked  them  ripe  and  red, 
In  the  merry  days  long  fled. 

Still,  when  grown  to  thoughtful  men, 
Strawberries  sought  we  e'en  as  then  ; 
But  another  name  they  bore 
Than  the  berries  plucked  of  yore. 
Some  assumed  the  form  of  Place, 
Leading  on  a  weary  chase, 
O'er  a  rough  and  tortuous  way, 
Seeking  strawberries  that  "  pay." 
Sacrificing  honor's  trust, 
Crawling  humbly  in  the  dust, 
Fawning,  lying,  crowding,  hating, 
E'en  for  dead  men's  shoes  awaiting! 
For  such  strawberries. many  yearned  — 
Few  with  brimming  pails  returned. 

H 


210          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Some  with  fierce  Ambition  fraught, 
Fame's  bright  berries  anxious  sought, 
Roaming  fields  whose  ample  scope, 
Yielded  to  their  wish  and  hope, 
Till  the  fruit  they  sought  was  gained, 
But  the  basket  full  obtained 
Gave  not  the  glow  of  heartfelt  jov 
That  crowned  the  seeking  of  the  boy. 

Others  Money,  Money,  craved  — 
Every  peril  for  it  braved  ; 
Giving  for  the  fruitage,  Pelf, 
All  the  betterness  of  self. 
Strawberries  their  constant  cry, 
Seeking  them  with  eager  eye  ; 
But,  though  granted  all  their  wish, 
They  were  verjuice  in  the  dish. 
Such  for  me  exert  no  power  — 
'Tis  a  fruit  that's  far  too  sour. 

Love,  a  strawberry  very  sweet, 
Lured  our  youthful  hearts  and  feet, 
Seen  in  eyes  and  red  lips,  rare, 
Rich  as  Hovey's  Seedlings  are, 
And  in  rapturous  look  or  kiss, 
We  had  baskets  full  of  bliss! 
Sweet  the  breath  of  clover  blooms, 
Sweet  the  myriad  perfumes 
That  fill  the  summer's  sunny  hours, 
Redolent  with  buds  and  flowers ; 
Sweet  the  song  of  bird  or  bee, 


6  TRA  W BERRIES.  2 1 1 

Or  the  forest  melody,  . 

As,  amid  the  tree-tops  high, 

Breezes  through  the  branches  sigh  ; 

Sweet  the  dashing  of  the  stream, 

Flowing  like  a  joyous  dream, 

Cheering  the  surrounding  scene 

With  an  added  wealth  of  green  ; 

But,  of  all  the  sweets  I  know, 

None  a  rivalry  can  show 

With  the  love  of  Youth's  bright  year, 

Gladdening  the  atmosphere  — 

Measuring  the  passing  time 

By  heart-throbs  pulsing  into  rhyme, 

While  the  glow  of  stars  and  suns 

Into  life's  enactment  runs, 

Making  earth  all  saccharine 

—  Strawberries  of  sort  divine  ; 

O'er  all  other  sorts  supreme  — 

Sugar  needing  not,  nor  cream  ! 

Many  were  the  kinds  thus  sought 
With  diverse  successes  fraught ; 
Many  baskets  running  o'er, 
Many  with  but  meagre  store. 
Some,  phantoms  followed,  day  by  day, 
Frittering  their  time  away  — 
Seeking  Fashion,  Pleasure,  Ease, 
Plucking  worldly  vanities, 
Ending  with  the  piteous  dole, 
Blank  vacuity  of  soul  ! 


212          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Happy  those  who  early  knew 
Where  the  Wisdom  berries  grew  ! 
Grand  the  fruitage  thus  to  gain, 
Worth  all  effort  to  obtain  ; 
Strawberries,  for  which  sacrifice 
And  earnest  striving  are  the  price. 

And  we  still  our  strawberries  seek, 
By  the  dint  of  wit  or  cheek  ; 
Young  and  old  their  bent  pursue, 
To  the  olden  impulse  true, 
Striving  strawberries  to  possess, 
With  like  chances  of  success. 
May  Heaven  its  kindness  manifest, 
And  lead  us  all  to  choose  the  best. 


THE    OLD  BROMFIELD   HOUSE.          213 


THE   OLD   BROMFIELD    HOUSE. 


[Sung  at  the  Last  Dinner  enjoyed  in  ths  old  house,  previous  toils  being  taken 
down,  to  make  way  for  tha  Wesleyan  Building.] 


EXALT  your  voice  in  hearty  cheer, 

Though  tears  bedim  your  eye, 
To  crown  this  scene,  with  memories  dear, 
To  which  we  bid  good  by. 

A  thousand  recollections  sweet 
O'erflow  the  brimming  heart, 
As  here,  where  long  we've  met  to  meat, 
Do  we  now  meet  to  part. 

The  odors  of  a  thousand  feasts, 
Like  ghosts,  the  sense  assail ; 
The  low  of  sacrificial  beasts 
In  fancy  fills  the  gale  ; 

The  crowded  board  comes  up  to  view, 

Where  long  we've  met  to  dine, 
And  word  and  smile  appear  anew, 
As  in  the  days  lang  syne. 

A  cheerful  heart  —  best  condiment  — 
Gave  zest  to  every  dish, 


214          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  epicurean  relish  lent 
To  flesh,  and  fowl,  and  fish. 

The  brightest  hour  of  all  the  day 

—  And  bright  if  rain  or  shine  — 
That  brought  us  hither  on  our  way, 
In  days  of  auld  lang  syne. 

The  fairest  scenes  of  earth  will  fade ; 

And  this,  so  long  our  own, 
By  sacred  friendship  joyous  made, 
In  heart  must  live  alone. 

But  that  we've  had  is  surely  ours; 

Let  whate'er  may  combine, 
They  cannot  trample  out  the  flowers 
That  bloomed  in  auld  lang  syne. 

Then  cherished  be  in  memory's  nook 

This  spot  by  us  revered, 
And  every  smile,  and  word,  and  look, 
That  has  its  past  endeared. 

We  raise  our  song  with  hearty  cheer, 

Though  rue  and  rose  entwine, 
And  in  our  cup  of  joy  a  tear 
We  drop  for  auld  lang  syne. 


DREAM  ARROWS.  215 


DREAM   ARROWS. 

SITTING  here  at  the  twilight  dim, 

Making  arrows  for  little  Jim  !  — 

The  curling  shavings  fall  around, 

Noiselessly  upon  the  ground, 

While  o'er  my  yielding  spirit  steals 

A  misty  spell  that  all  conceals 

Of  past  or  present,  bearing  me 

Over  a  wide  and  troubled  sea, 

With  shattered  hopes,  like  wrecks,  bestrown, 

And  half-accomplished  trophies  won, 

To  where  a  Jim  of  other  name 

Whittled  arrows  just  the  same. 

O,  sweet  the  quick,  tumultuous  thrill, 
As  boyhood's  tide  my  veins  refill ! 
I  roam  again  the  verdant  fields, 
I  feel  the  transport  freedom  yields, 
I  smell  the  sweet  balsamic  pines, 
In  tranquil  shades  my  form  reclines, 
I  seek  the  hush  of  rural  nooks, 
I  bathe  in  cool  and  crystal  brooks, 
I  gather  berries  where  they  hide, 
I  sail  upon  the  Summer  tide, 


216          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  ball  before  my  arm  bounds  high, 
My  kite  in  daring  scales  the  sky, 
I  feel  the  plenitude  of  joy 
That  waits  upon  "  the  human  boy." 

What  castellated  hopes  arise, 
And  gleam  before  my  eager  eyes  ! 
How  richly  are  the  low  clouds  hung 
With  brilliant  colors  broadcast  flung, 
And  how  I  long  to  breast  the  tide 
Which  keeps  me  from  the  other  side  — 
So  far,  so  wide,  the  buoyant  soul 
Scarce  brooks  the  leash  of  Time's  control ! 

But  dreams  !  — The  curling  shavings  fall ; 
The  spell  dissolves,  and,  vanished  all 
The  mystic  shadows  that  bespread 
The  bended  form  and  silvery  head, 
Reveals  me,  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Making  arrows  for  little  Jim  ! 
Yet  still  remains  the  better  part, 
The  constant  cheerfulness  of  heart, 
The  joyous  fancy  that  shall  keep 
Till  life  is  "  rounded  by  a  sleep." 


THE    CHURCH  BELL.  217 


THE   CHURCH   BELL. 

[Written  for  a  Fair  Paper,  called  "The  Church  Bell."] 

NOT  in  a  lofty  steeple, 
Looking  down  upon  the  people, 
THE  CHURCH  BELL  swings ; 
But  from  a  modest  throne 
And  in  a  gladsome  tone 

Its  peal  otitrings 
Till  every  kindly  spirit 
Shall  with  a  blessing  hear  it, 

And  each  one  feel 

Its  sweet  appeal ;  — 
Feel  in  their  heart  of  heart 
The  generous  impulse  start, 
Feel  with  its  every  note 
The  good  they  should  promote, 
Feel  as  its  echoes  sound 
A  love  more  broad  abound  ; 

With  ready  hand, 

At  its  demand, 
Feel  in  their  pockets — plenty-crowned 


21 8          LINKS  JN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And,  answering  to  its  chimes, 
Bring  forth  their  dimes  ! 

THE  CHURCH  BELL'S  tongue 
Inflicts  no  pangs  along 
The  path  it  sounds  —  with  scandal  fraught; 

It  pours  no  sickly  strain 

To  mislead  heart  and  brain, 
But  with  an  inspiration  faintly  caught 

From  source  above, 

With  Peace,  Good  Will,  and  Love, 
Man's  blessing  is  its  motive  and  its  thought,  — 

Man's  blessing  and  God's  glory, 

The  old  grand  story, 
Lighting  with  joy  the  humblest  pages  : 

That  narrative  divinely  penned, 

Whose  interest  shall  never  end  — 
"  To  be  continued  "  through  eternal  ages. 

Then  list  the  glad  CHURCH  BELL, 

Whose  chimes  around  you  swell ; 

Of  duty's  claims  they  tell. 
As,  in  old  revolutionary  times, 
The  ancient  church  bell's  stirring  chimes 

Woke  patriot  hearts  to  strife 

For  liberty  and  life, 

So  this  makes  like  appeal  to  strike  for  right, 
For  Sin  is  rampant,  ready  for  the  fight, 
And  here  the  forge  for  tempering  the  mail 
In  which  its  gathered  forces  to  assail. 


THE    CHURCH  BELL. 


219 


THE  FAIR!  THE  FAIR! 
No  effort  spare ; 

Give  of  your  bounty  here  a  generous  share. 
'Tis  God's  own  citadel  ye  build  ; 
Let  it  with  power  be  filled 
By  that  ye  bring  and  give  as  offering, 
Heart-free  and  hand-free,  and  its  walls  shall  spring 
A  habitation  meet  for  Heaven's  Almighty  King. 


220          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


A  PUSH   FOR  FREEDOM. 

[The  supposed  reflections  of  an  escaped  Canary.] 

A  HOPE  of  freedom  !     Thank  the  favoring  fates 

That  left  ajar  my  grated  door, 

Through  which  the  sun  his  ray  doth  pour, 
As  if  to  light  me  where  sweet  freedom  waits, 

Outside,  to  give  me  place, 

'Mid  scenes  of  bliss  and  grace, 
Unchecked,  unhindered  by  vile  prison  gates. 

**. 

How  soft  and  cool  there  fall 
The  shadows  on  the  wall ! 
And  the  sweet  honeysuckle's  spray 
Tempts  me  with  -motion  gay, 
As  'twere  a  voice  to  me  : 
u  Now  is  the  time  to  flee  ! 
This  open  door  will  set  you  free, 
And,  once  abroad,  no  hand  shall  check  your  way." 

Even  yon  tiny  sparrow 

Struts  and  mocks  me  in  my  confines  narrow, 
Cocking  his  eye  up  roguishly  to  mine, 
While  plucking  at  some  object  on  the  vine. 


A  PUSH  FOR  FREE.DOM.  221 

The  wind  among  the  bushes, 
The  flower  that  nods  and  blushes, 
The  glad  green  of  the  trees, 
The  humming  of  the  bees, 

All,  all  unite 

To  lure  my  faltering  flight 
To  the  broad  fields  beyond  of  freedom  and  delight. 

And  shall  these  be  denied  ? 
Sweet  lady,  turn  your  eyes  aside, 

And  the  new  thought  that  springs 

Shall  lend  support  to  wings 
Too  long  in  freedom's  offices  untried. 

One  step  —  that's  all  —  and  in  my  grasp  the  prize  ! 

I  do  not  ask  me,  "  Is  it  wise 

To  leave  the  seed,  the  perch,  the  gentle  eyes 

Th^t  sought  ray  good, 

The  plenitude 

That  my  fair  jail  with  benefit  bestrewed, 
For  Freedom's  chance?  " 

The  gilded  jail  is  but  a  jail, 

And  the  contracted  limit  of  its  pale 
Annuls  each  qualifying  circumstance. 

Flow  long  I've  struggled  with  the  cruel  wires 
That  kept  me  from  the  goal  of  my  desires  !  — 

With  pain  of  soul 

Received  the  dole 
So  kindly  given,  the  while  I've  striven, 

But,  lacking  freedom,  lacked  the  whole  ! 


222          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  now,  that  open  door ! 

One  noiseless  step  the  portal  o'er, 

And  I  am  free 

In  the  glorious  light  of  Liberty !  — 
The  freedom  self-attained, 

And  not  a  boon  thrown  grudgingly  — 
A  beggar's  alms,  unblest,  and  thankless  gained ! 

Sweet  lady,  wake  !  awake  ! 

My  sunlit  plumes  I  shake 
On  the  high  trellis,  in  the  open  air, 
The  sky  above  my  head,  and  everywhere 

Is  limitless  scope 

For  the  free  wing's  boldest  hope  ! 
Call  me  not  ingrate,  lady  ;  I  but  take 

That  is  mine  own. 
At  morn  and  eve  I'll  sing,  for  your  sweet  sake, 

A  grateful  tribute  from  my  airy  throne, 

That  may  for  disappointment  part  atone. 

Higher !  still  higher 

My  enfranchised  wings  aspire, 
And,  on  this  grand  tree's  loftiest  limb, 

I  sit  and  swing, 

And  blithely  sing 
My  sweetest,  most  exultant  hymn, 
Whose  notes  e'en  slavery  could  not  dim. 

Bright  hope  !     Bright  faith  ! 
No  supervening  dun 
Obscures  the  sun ; 


A  PUSH  FOR  FREEDOM. 


223 


The  future  hath  no  fears ;   nor  want  nor  death 

Obtrude  their  forms, 

And  in  the  passing  storms 
That  may  occur  to  give  alloy, 
No  blast  can  sweep  away  the  present  joy. 

Happen  the  fate  that  may, 

This  bright,  triumphant  day 
Is  mine  in  all  the  feel  of  joy  that  Freedom  gives, 
In  which  alone  a  being  only  lives. 


224          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


MILES   O'REILLY.* 

"  THE  BOY  "  is  dead  !    The  restless  heart  is  stilled  — 
Its  fierce  ambition,  recklessness,  and  pride, 

And  all  the  sweeter  attributes  that  thrilled 
With  passion's  fervency  intensified. 

His  was  no  singing-bird's  mellifluous  note, 

Whose  cadence  soft  the  heart  enchanted  heard, 

But,  trumpet-toned,  the  ambient  air  it  smote, 
And  to  its  deepest  depths  the  spirit  stirred. 

Even  the  dulcet  strain  that  love  might  breathe 
—  Couched  tenderly,  in  accent  soft  and  low  — 

*  General  Charles  Graham  Halpine  was  associated  with  the  author  of  the  above, 
for  the  greater  part  of  one  year,  in  the  publication  of  a  paper  that  boasted  of 
more  character  than  patronage.  This  was  in  1852.  The  association  was  un 
interruptedly  pleasant,  and  the  friendship  then  formed  continued  till  the  death 
of  General  H.  His  title  of  "General  "  was  earned  in  the  war  of  the  rebellion,  in 
which  he  took  a  distinguished  part.  His  adoption  of  the  nom  de  plume  of 
Miles  O'Reilly  was  at  the  siege  of  Charleston,  where  he  wrote  President  Lin 
coln  an  amusing  letter  over  this  signature.  It  was  impudent  in  the  extreme, 
and  excited  considerable  curiosity.  The  letters  were  continued,  and  the  author 
ship  was  discovered,  causing  some  anger  in  certain  high  quarters;  but  he 
was  too  much  feared  to  be  molested.  When  he  came  back  to  private  life,  the  name 
came  with  him,  garnished,  by  himself,  with  the  additional  term  of  "The  Boy." 


MILES  O'REILLT.  22$ 

Was  warm  with  smouldering  fires  that  burned  be 
neath, 
Hinting  of  lava  and  the  crater's  glow. 

His  was  the  song  that  nerved  the  patriot's  hand, 
When  war's  fell  clangor  rang  o'er  earth  and  main  ; 

He  gave  himself  to  his  adopted  land, 

And  strove  the  perilled  Union  to  maintain. 

But  when  the  note  of  strife  was  haply  hushed, 
And  all  the  tumult  found  a  glad  surcease, 

His  was  the  song  that  with  grand  fervor  gushed, 
To  welcome  in  the  reign  of  sovereign  Peace. 

Old  strife  ignored,  his  hand  was  outward  held 
To  grasp  the  hand  that  lately  met  his  own 

On  battle-fields,  by  deadliest  hate  impelled, 

Forgetting  war  when  war's  fierce  blast  was  blown. 

His  was  the  caustic  pen  that  ever  sought 
To  prick  the  bubble  df  a  vain  pretence  ; 

He  strove  by  song,  with  wit  and  satire  fraught, 
To  banish  wrong  and  bold  incompetence. 

But,  with  a  genius  free  as  birds  in  May, 

He'd  leave,  at  times,  the  touch  of  meaner  things, 

And  in  the  ampler  ethers  soar  away 
On  Poesy's  most  sublimated  wings  ; 

Or  strike  some  tuneful  strain,  the  humble  ear 

Could  hear  and  treasure  from  the   darling  "Boy," 
15 


226         LINES  IN   PLEASANT   PLACES. 

The  one  beloved,  who  fain  life's  path  would  cheer 
By  strewing,  along,  the  flowers  of  hope  and  joy. 

Now,  stilled  the  hand  that  struck  the  living  lyre ! 

Dead  to  all  life,  all  honor,  and  all  pain ! 
Quenched  at  its  height  the  intellectual  fire ! 

Fallen  to  earth  the  proudly-cherished  fane ! 

But  not  forgotten  —  no  mere  memory 
To  fade  away  as  lesser  ones  have  flown ; 

For  death,  to  such,  is  not  to  cease  to  be, 
But  still  to  live  in  deeds  as  firm  as  stone. 


THE  LOVE   OF   THE    OLD.  227 


THE   LOVE   OF   THE    OLD. 

MUCH,  much  is  written,  and  much  is  sung, 
Of  love  that  dwells  youth's  bowers  among, 
When  the  eyes  are  bright  and  the  cheeks  aflame 
With  a  glow  the  tints  of  the  rose  might  shame, 
When  the  heart  throbs  quick  with  emotion  warm 
And  the  pulses  answer  to  passion's  storm, 
But  little  is  said  in  the  stories  told 
Of  the  tried  and  faithful  love  of  the  old. 

Age  is  the  harvest  season  of  love, 
As  earth-life  melts  in  the  life  above ; 
The  fruitage  time,  in  spirit  and  truth, 
Of  the  seeds  of  love  that  are  sown  in  youth : 
Some  never  spring  in  the  stony  ground, 
Some  die  ere  the  evening  shades  come  round, 
But,  bright  and  fresh  from  congenial  mould 
Grows  the  love  that  ripens  to  crown  the  old. 

Ah,  many  a  trial  this  love  hath  known  ; 
The  fiercest  suns  have  upon  it  shone, 
The  rain's  mad  beat  and  the  raging  blast 


228          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Have  o'er  its  fortunes  a  life-time  passed  ; 
It  has  thriven  the  better  when  thus  assailed, 
And  ne'er  from  its  hope  and  trust  has  failed  — 
Ne'er  in  devotedness  turned  cold, 
But  brighter  glowed  as  the  heart  grew  old. 

'Tis  not  a  love  to  last  for  a  day, 
A  light  to  flash  and  vanish  away. 
To  rave  with  a  sonnet  and  melt  in  sighs, 
And  live  in  selfish  unsacrifice  — 
To  crave  forever  with  tearful  cheeks, 
And  die  in  possession  of  what  it  seeks : 
By  pure  and  exalted  trust  controlled 
Is  the  love  that  sanctifies  the  old. 

Then,  graybeards,  heed  not  the  mocking  sneer 
From  supercilious  lips  you  hear  ; 
Yours  is  the  love  that  has  stood  the  test, 
And  gilds  your  years  like  a  smile  from  the  west. 
It  sparkles  and  glows  like  the  richest  wine, 
And  it  bears  the  brand  of  the  love  divine  ;  — 
There's  a  glory  more  than  the  eye  may  behold 
In  the  endless  love  that  bides  with  the  old. 


HERE  AND    YONDER.  229 


HERE   AND   YONDER. 

AH,  cold  and  dreary  is  the  night ! 

We  bear  without  the  chilling  gale 
Bend  the  lithe  tree-tops  in  its  flight, 

While  the  impetuous  rains  assail, 
Dashing  against  the  window  pane, 

As  if  with  bitter  madness  fraught, 
But,  failing  entrance,  sob  in  vain 

At  finding  all  their  efforts  come  to  nought. 

We  closer  draw  around  the  grate, 

And  shudder  as  the  sound  we  hear, 
And  think  how  sad  must  be  the  fate 

Of  those  who  dare  a  night  so  drear ! 
The  fire's  warm  beams  small  cheer  impart, 

While  listening  to  the  stormy  din, 
That  wakes  sad  feelings  in  the  heart, 

From  which  sweet  converse  fails  our  thought 
to  win. 

Around  the  chimney-top  the  wind 
Roars  its  defiance,  hurrying  by, 


230  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

As  though  it  dare  not  lag  behind, 

Charged  with  its  message  from  the  sky ; 

And  down  the  vale  it  wildly  roars, 
Filling  the  timid  with  affright, 

While  still  the  rain  in  torrents  pours, 

And  darkness  rules  the  province  of  the  night. 

We  gaze  out  through  the  murky  gloom, 

And  there  upon  the  distant  sky 
The  city  lights  the  arch  illume, 

Mirrored  upon  the  clouds  on  high  ; 
Beyond  and  o'er  the  tumult  dire 

And  darkness  that  the  scene  invest, 
Gloweth  that  cheerful  constant  fire 

In  which  are  peace  and  safety  manifest. 

Thus,  as  we  stand  amid  life's  storms, 

With  sin  and  sorrow  girt  about, 
While  scarce  a  ray  our  spirit  warms, 

And  left  to  darkness  and  to  doubt,  — 
In  our  despair  we  upward  gaze, 

And  there,  above  all  doubts  and  .damps, 
We  catch  the  glory  of  the  blaze 

From  the  Eternal  City's  golden  lamps. 


HOW   WEARING   IT  IS!  231 


HOW   WEARING   IT  IS! 

IN  the  journey  of  life,  with  care  ill  at  ease. 

And  fortune  unfavoring  grudging  its  smile. 
We  struggle  our  burnings  of  heart  to  appease, 

And  think  we  succeed,  but  don't  all  the  while. 
Like  the  rust  on  the  iron,  it  eats  day  by  day, 

Until,  too  far  gaining,  past  bearing  it  is, 
When  we  sigh  to  ourselves,  and  despairingly  say, 

O  fortune  !  O  fortune  !   how  wearing  it  is  ! 

When  love  first  invades  the  temple  of  youth, 

And  throws  o'er  the  victim  its  conquering  chain, 
His  bosom  is  filled  with  a  tempest  of  ruth, 

And  he  sinks  in  a  spasm  of  amorous  pain. 
As  day  by  day  thus  by  slow  torture  he  burns, 

With  even  a  martyr's  comparing  it  is ; 
For  the  end  of  his  torment  he  lovingly  yearns, 

And  says  in  his  passion,  How  wearing  it  is ! 

The  indulgent  papa  o'er  his  quarterly  bills, 
That  fashion  or  folly  have  brought  to  his  ken, 

Looks  anxiously  on  them  with  aguish  chills, 

And  thinks  himself  the  worst  used  among  men  ; 


232          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

He  mutters  a  word  —  we  do  not  well  know 
What  word  —  though  very  like  swearing  it  is, 

But  he  counts  out  the  cash  with  a  desperate  brow, 
That  serves  to  tell  us  how  wearing  it  is. 

The  fond  mother  toils  o'er  her  pale-burning  lamp, 

While  care  for  her  darling  inspires  her  breast; 
He  has  ruined  his  jacket,  the  good-natured  scamp, 

And  steals  from  his  parent  her  well-needed  rest ; 
But  cheerly  she  smiles,  as  her  needle  she  plies, 

Her  heart  for  his  mischief  uncaring  it  is, 
For  she  knows  that  in  play  his  happiness  lies. 

The  while  she  admits  how  wearing  it  is. 

The  constant  dropping  may  wear  the  stone, 

And  so  runs  the  adage  that  all  well  know ; 
And  in  every  lot  a  mortal  has  known 

There  is  dropping  to  prove  to  us  "  that  'tis  so ;" 
But  stout  of  heart,  we  will  let  it  all  drop, 

With  a  confidence  never  despairing  it  is, 
Till  living  and  time  shall  finally  stop, 

And  never  acknowledge  how  wearing  it  is. 


THE  REASON  WHT.  233 


THE   REASON  WHY. 

A  COALMAN'S  dog,  native  of  Newfoundland, 

A  sturdy,  shaggy,  handsome,  faithful  beast,  — 

Greeteth  my  vision,  day  by  day,  as  goes 

His  master  to  his  customary  toil, — 

The  dog  attendant,  gravely,  as  it  were 

His  mission,  also,  to  dispense  the  coals. 

He  has  no  notice  for  the  wayside  curs* 

That  strive  his  grave  attention  to  arrest. 

His  gait  "  means  business,"  and  nought  frivolous 

Or  trifling  can  divert  his  constant  feet 

That  press  unswervingly  in  duty's  path. 

Grateful  to  him  who  gives  him  scanty  bread, 

He  looks  up  to  him  with  great,  earnest  eyes, 

Ne'er  faltering  in  love  and  trustfulness  — 

Deeming  none  other  in  the  world  like  him, 

E'en  though  a  dudeen  desecrate  his  lips, 

Or  u  ardent"  lave  his  incandescent  throat, 

Or  the  fierce  oath  at  times,  perchance,  emits, 

Which  serves  to  emphasize  a  cruel  kick. 

Still  he's  his  master,  evermore  revered, 

And,  humbly  acquiescent,  he  forgets 

All  ill  in  joyousness  at  one  soft  word, 


234          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Or  e'en  a  look  that  augurs  kind  regard. 
Exponent  of  a  love  most  sanctified, 
He  asks  but  that  he  may  his  love  bestow, 
And  find  in  his  devotion  his  reward  — 
Unselfish,  tender,  true,  unto  the  end ! 
He  has  no  habits  vile  ;  no  passion's  rage, 
No  breath  exhaling  fumes  of  nicotine 
Or  alcoholic  death  ;  no  word  profane 
Escapes  his  lips,  nor  slander's  baleful  slime  ; 
No  schemes  dishonest  ever  mar  his  rest ; 
No  treachery  to  friends,  no  base  resorts 
Of  trickery  and  fraud  his  point  to  gain  ; 
No  subterfuge,  or  false  pretence,  or  greed, 
Or  mean  endeavor  others'  wish  to  thwart ; 
Living  just  up  to  instinct's  light,  Heaven-lent, 
And  shaming  reason  by  example  grand. 
Fidelity  to  duty's  unpaid  claim 
Distinguishes  his  life  ;  his  proudest  post 
The  portal  of  the  humble  home  he  guards 
With  ceaseless  vigilance  and  rigid  trust ; 
His  only  recreation  with  the  boys  to  mix, 
And  in  their  sports  be  boy  among  the  rest, 
Barking  his  sympathy  in  noisy  joy, 
Or  meekly  following  at  his  master's  heels. 
Why  is  he  thus  the  faithful,  true,  and  kind, 
—  Embodiment  of  every  native  good 
Men  might  well  copy  with  abundant  gain, — 
I  know  no  reason  save  that  —  he's  a  DOG. 


THE   QUILTING.  235 


THE   QUILTING. 

IN  the  revered  ancestral  days, 

When  folk  were  innocent  and  good, 
And  had  not  lost  in  selfish  ways 

The  generous  fact  of  neighborhood, 
There  was  an  honored  custom  known 

—  The  "  quilting  bee"  of  genial  fame 
Whose  simple  graces  far  outshone 

Occasions  of  a  loftier  name. 

Its  summons  sped  o'er  hill  and  dale, 

And,  like  the  slogan  of  a  clan, 
Its  note  filled  every  passing  gale, 

Awaking  echoes  as  it  ran  ; 
Till  all  feminity,  inspired, 

Rushed  cap-a-pie  at  the  appeal, 
With  zeal  and  emulation  fired, 

To  ply,  in  peaceful  strife,  the  steel. 

A  work  of  love  —  no  selfish  aim 
Inspired  the  hearts  assembled  there 

About  the  pristine  quilting-frame, 
To  do  their  devoir  on  the  square ; 


236          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  nimble  fingers  deftly  flew, 

Through  u  herrin'-bone,"  and  "  cone,"  and 

"  shell," 
And  stitched  the  fabric  through  and  through, 

With  loving  stitches  strong  and  well. 

The  ancient  profiles  on  the  walls 

Upon  the  scene  look  primly  down, 
Where  autumn's  mellow  sunshine  falls 

On  snowy  cap  and  homespun  gown, 
And  listening,  —  if  they  can  but  hear,  — 

Most  wondrous  stones  they  obtain, 
Of  "  carryin's  on"  afar  and  near, 

Where  gossip  pours  like  summer  rain,  — 

Of  hap'nings  that  have  had  their  day, 

And  hap'nings  that  are  like  to  be, 
While  still  the  gleaming  needles  play, 

With  converse  glib  in  harmony. 
The  ease  of  confidential  talk 

Lends  to  the  scene  its  rarest  charm  ; 
No  masculine  the  tide  to  balk, 

Or  give  the  sensitive  alarm. 

The  work  complete,  a  varied  field, 

Like  human  life,  the  thoughtful  see  ; 
But  ere  a  pause  the  thought  can  yield, 

Along  come  evening  and  the  tea. 
The  board  with  homely  fare  is  set, 

And  hospitality  the  grace 
That  crowns  the  social  circle  met, 

Where  cheerfulness  and  truth  embrace. 


THE   QUILTING.  237 

And  gay  the  evening  when  the  beaux 

Come  in  their  'lotted  part  to  bear, 
To  sing  Old  Hundred  through  their  nose, 

Or  in  the  dance  to  take  a  share  ; 
For  melody  and  mirth  combine 

To  give  a  briskness  to  the  time, 
And  festal  wreaths  of  joy  entwine 

Of  funny  fancies  or  sublime. 

Thus  doth  the  memory  return 

Of  a  rare  scene  within  the  past ; 
A  simple  scene  we  may  not  spurn, 

With  modern  notions  gay  and  "  fast ;  " 
For  in  the  light  and  growth  of  mind 

We  may  a  room  for  contrast  see, 
And  in  the  retrospection  find 

A  balance  for  the  "  quilting  bee." 


238          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE  PERFIDIOUS   MILLER. 


[A  romaunt  founded  on  the  well-known  legend  of  the  "  Miller  of  Brentnal 
Mere,"  wherein  the  perjured  miller  comes  to  a  disastrous  end,  according  to  the 
most  exact  code  of  poetic  justice.] 


THE  air  is  chill' on  heath  and  hill ; 

Beyond  the  desert  plain 
The  sombre  mill  stands  hearkening  still 
To  the  river's  sad  refrain  ; 
Seeming  dreaming, 
In  silent  pain, 
Of  something  sadly  against  its  grain. 

The  mill-lamp  glows,  and  the  window  shows 

Red  in  its  lurid  ray, 

And  the  beam  outgoes  where  the  water  flows 
.    On  its  turbid  and  sullen  way  ; 

And  on  the  tide, 

Where  smiles  should  play, 
There's  a  gloom  as  if  there's  mischief  "  to  pay." 

The  great  wheel  groans,  and  the  huge  mill-stones 
Chew  up  the  yellow  corn, 


THE  PERFIDIOUS   MILLER.  239 

But  in  the  tones  there  are  fancied  moans, 
And  sounds  of  woe  forlorn  ; 
And  shivering  there 
Stands  Miller  Horn 
With  a  pallid  face,  of  terror  born. 

Ah  !  guesses  he  well,  would  he  but  tell, 

That  sorry  strain  he  hears, 
That,  like  a  knell  of  a  bell,  or  a  yell, 
Keeps  sounding  in  his  ears : 
Ringing,  dinging, 
Like  note  of  spheres, 
That  wake  nowadays  no  burning  fears ! 

His  matted  hair  diverges  there, 

And  chatter  well  his  teeth  ; 
He  hears  despair  in  the  ambient  air, 
And  a  demon  underneath, 
Striving,  driving, 
With  fierce  pent  breath, 
To  reach  him,  he  feels,  with  stroke  of  death. 

'Twas  midnight  hour,  when  ghosts  have  power  ; 

And  there  amid  the  gloom 

Did  he  wildly  glower  through  a  mealy  shower, 
As  if  to  read  his  doom  ; 
When  to  his  ear, 
As  from  a  tomb, 
A  voice  cried  out,  "  We  come  —  make  room  !  " 


240          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Then  by  the  door  and  through  the  floor 

Came  imps  of  ghastly  hue, 
Demons  galore  and  more  and  more 
They  crowded  on  his  view, 
With  full  intent 
He  too  well  knew, 
To  put  him  most  severely  through. 

But,  up  to  snuff,  he  tried  the  bluff — 

He  knew  the  game  quite  well ; 
He  was  good  stuff,  and  tough,  but  rough 
Did  conscience  in  him  swell ; 
But  bluff  he  found 
Though  here  it  tell, 
Was  not  a  game  to  win  in  —  other  places. 

"  Who  are  you,  pray,  that  come  this  way, 

In  such  fanfaronade  ? 
Hast  been  in,  say,  the  Black  Crook  play, 
That  you  are  thus  arrayed  ? 
Dost  think  that  I 
Will  be  afraid, 
Or  at  your  monkey  tricks  dismayed? 

"  If  spirits  thou,  pray  tell  me  how 

'  Ye  constabels '  ye  shied  ? 
For  round  here  now  they  lurk  and  bow, 
And  watch  on  every  side  ; 
Not  '  ardent '  thou 
Identified, 
Or  seized  thou'dst  been  and  straightway  tried." 


THE   PERFIDIOUS   MILLER.  241 

Then  from  the  rout  a  sprite  stepped  out, 

—  A  ghostess  very  grim,  — 

Both  tall  and  stout,  and  screeched  out 
A  speech  of  ghostly  vim, 

While  on  the  wall 

The  light  burned  dim, 
And  all  the  imps  glarecl  fierce  at  him  : 

"Dost  not  know  me,  thou  perjured  he? 

Better  thou  ne'er  wast  born  ; 
I  am  she  whom  thy  perfidee 
Consigned  to  fate  forlorn  ; 
You  played  me  false, 
And  married  Mrs.  Horn  !  " 
"  Alas  !  "  cried  he,  "  I  own  the  corn." 

"You  vowed,"  she  said,  "  that  me  you'd  wed, 

—  The  dearest  you  had  seen,  — 
Then  straight  you  sped  and  marri-ed 

Amanda  Agnes  Green ; 
And  I.  ah  me  ! 
In  bitter  spleen, 
Jumped  overboard  and  closed  the  scene ! 

"  Your  vow  you'll  keep  ;  no  more  you'll  sleep 

'Twixt  peaceful  blankets  twain  ; 
The  froglets  peep  above  the  deep, 
Where  I  so  long  have  lain, 
And  that  with  me, 
By  might  and  main, 
You  share  my  river-bed  I'm  fain." 
16 


242          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

With  bitter  shriek,  with  deathly  cheek, 

"  Now  spare  me,  pray,"  said  he  ; 
u  Your  looks  bespeak  some  dreadful  freak 
That  bodes  no  good  to  me ; 
My  wife  at  home 
Will  nervous  be, 
If  I  don't  come  to  time  nor  tea." 

With  jump  and  bound  they  hedged  him  round, 

They  girt  him  every  way  ; 
His  head  was  wound  with  a  meal-bag  found, 
His  tongue  alone  had  play  ; 
And  hard  he  begged 
For  another  day, 
But  the  ghostess,  claiming  the  groom,  said  u  Nay." 

The  miller  they  seized,  the  miller  they  squeezed 

In  the  hopper,  and  down  he  sped  ; 
He  merely  sneezed  as  the  grinder  seized, 
And  never  opened  his  head  ; 
Indeed  I'm  sure 
All  ope  had  fled 
Ere  he  was  ground  to  gingerbread ! 

The  mill  still  moans  in  sorry  tones 

For  the  miller's  cruel  end, 
And  the  miller's  bones  on  the  senseless  stones 
With  rye  and  indian  blend  : 
While  underneath 
Doth  still  contend 
The  struggling  fiend  with  wrench  and  rend. 


THE  PERFIDIOUS  MILLER.  243 

When  the  storm  o'  nights  the  soul  affrights, 

And  with  fear  the  nerves  are  torn, 
The  gossip  delights  as  she  recites 

How  the  ghostess  doubled  the  Horn, 
When  in  the  night, 
Through  the  hopper  borne, 
The  miller  followed  his  grist  of  corn. 


244          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE   OLD-TIME   APPLE-BEE. 

AMONG  the  pleasing  things  of  the  past 
That  come  to  me  in  fond  retrocast, 
Fraught  with  the  odor  and  grace  of  truth, 
And  bearing  the  glory  and  glow  of  youth, 
—  The  morning  light  of  the  early  day, 
When  all  was  bright,  and  all  was  gay, 
And  my  heart  beat  quick  to  the  notes  of  glee, 
Is  the  cheerful  and  busy  apple-bee. 

Ah,  happy  is  the  scene  I  view 
In  the  blaze  of  memory's  light  anew, 
And  merry  and  fair  the  circle  seen, 
In  pristine  garb  and  pristine  mien, 
With  bright  eyes  beauteous  in  their  glow 
As  in  the  long,  long  years  ago, 
When  I,  in  boyish  feeling  free, 
Found  mirth  and  joy  in  the  apple-bee. 

Cheeks  rivalling  the  apple's  blush, 
Smiles  as  tender  as  morning's  flush, 
Voices  clear  as  the  song  of  birds, 
Tuned  to  cadence  of  happy  words, 


THE    OLD-TIME  APPLE-BEE.  245 

Pleasant  gossip  of  this  and  that, 
Healthful  music  of  earnest  chat, 
Wisdom,  and  wit,  and  melody, 
Marked  the  course  of  the  apple-bee. 

Say  not  a  word  of  Grecian  bends, 

Or  the  added  charm  that  crinoline  lends, 

Or  the  waterfall's  expanding  grace, 

Or  the  wealth  of  ribbon  or  of  lace, 

Or  the  slender  shape  of  a  prisoned  waist, 

Or  the  pride  of  fashion's  captious  taste  — 

They  none  compare  with  the  forms  I  see 

In  my  vision  there  of  the  apple-bee. 

There's  more  revealed  than  the  show  of  wealth 
In  the  strength  and  beauty  of  sturdy  health  ; 
More  grandeur  than  if  gem-bedight 
In  radiant  eyes'  effulgent  light ; 
More  grace  than  chignon  e'er  has  thrown 
In  rippling  locks  that  are  all  their  own  ; 
And  the  high  back-comb  is  a  crown  to  me  — 
Each  wearer  a  queen  at  the  apple-bee. 

Severely  simple  and  chastely  sweet 

Is  the  dress  where  prudence  and  comfort  meet ; 

Where  the  heart  can  beat  with  as  glad  a  glow 

As  if  under  silk,  in  calico, 

And  'mid  the  crush  of  impending  ills 

Are  ne'er  included  milliner  bills  ; 

And  no  compunctious  throe  has  she 

Who  shines  as  queen  of  the  apple-bee. 


246  LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  mirth  leaps  up  when  the  work  is  done, 
And  the  carnival  reigns  of  noisy  fun  ; 
The  old  look  on  in  benignant  way 

To  see  the  very forfeits  to  pay  — 

The  culminate  of  labial  joys, 
In  let-out  spirits  of  girls  and  boys ! 
Ah,  many  a  lovelit  flame  we  see 
Illuming  the  scene  of  the  apple-bee. 

The  scene  fades  out  in  mist  of  years ; 
The  old-time  custom  disappears  : 
Voices  are  hushed  that  then  were  gay ; 
The  golden  locks  have  turned  to  gray ; 
The  tender  eyes,  so  fair  and  bright, 
Are  grandames'  now,  with  failing  sight; 
And  nought  is  left  but  a  memory 
Of  the  joyous,  rollicking  apple-bee. 


THE  NEW   TEAR.  247 


THE   NEW   YEAR. 

"  WELL,  well,  here's  Monsieur  Tonson  come  again  !  " 
We  cry,  as  Time,  once  more,  his  twelve  moons  past, 
Wheels  round  to  mind  us  of  the  waning  years. 
Persistent  Time  !  —  no  failure  e'er  attends 
The  movement  of  his  car,  and,  promptly  run, 
He  holds  his  hand  for  dues  that  we  must  pay  ;  — 
For  all  owe  dues  to  Time,  confest  or  not. 
If  not  confest,  he  full  reprisal  makes, 
And  those  who  cunningly  essay  to  cheat, 
Pay  ofttimes  doubly  for  the  debt  they'd  fly. 
The  thinning  hair,  the  failing  sight,  the  teeth 
Fast  crumbling  to  an  ever  "  aching  void," 
Attest  the  claims  of  Time ;  and  that  they're  paid, 
Ask  Messrs.  Cocoaine,  Spectacles  &  Bone, 
Whose  aid  supplies  the  draft  that  Time  has  made  ! 
There  is  no  stay  for  Time,  —  that  queer  old  man,  — 
Whose  zeal  ne'er  wearies,  and  whose  changing  glass 
Is  ever  running  oft' the  slippery  hours  ; 
Whose  scythe,  alas !  is  busy  with  our  hopes, 
Cutting  our  treasures  down  without  remorse, 
And  giving  them  to  Death  !  —  a  sacrifice 
Priceless  and  peerless,  and  most  worthy  heaven. 


248          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Men  are  but  motes  upon  the  dial-plate 

Moved  over  by  the  great  hour-hand  of  Time. 

Unchecking  it,  though  huge  they  deem  themselves, 

Till  from  the  verge  they  drop,  in  senseless  dust, 

Whilst  yet  the  everlasting  hand  moves  on  ! 

How  little  are  we  in  the  mighty  plan 

Of  God's  ordaining!   and  'tis  haply  given 

The  new-born  year  this  lesson  to  impart, 

And  teach  humility  to  those  who  vaunt ; 

Thus  human  Ossas,  in  their  own  conceit, 

May  dwindle  to  the  real  warts  they  are  ! 

Would  we  reverse  the  plan,  and  roll  the  ball 

Back  on  its  axis,  and  restore  the  Past? 

Such  wishes  have  been,  where  the  stricken  soul 

Mourned  over  time  misspent  it  fain  would  mend  ; 

Or  where  the  selfish  with  their  baubles  played, 

And  grudged,  at  Time's  approach,  to  lay  them  down. 

Not  so  with  those  alive  to  Duty's  call, 

Forever  active  in  the  ways  of  life, 

And  living  for  the  benefit  of  men. 

They  have  no  futile  retrospective  wish 

For  flesh-pots  left  far  in  the  race  behind  ; 

Nor  stand  they  idly  by  with  folded  hands 

Whilst  the  great  world  spins  round  them  like  a  top  ; 

Nor  look  they  back,  like  Mistress  Lot,  to  find 

Themselves  transformed  to  worse  than  useless  salt, 

Savorless  of  all  that  gives,  to  living,  life  ! 

They'd  not  revoke  a  day,  but  keep  their  souls 

Timed  by  the  present  and  the  future  need, 


THE   NEW   TEAR.  249 

And,  like  a  watch  that's  wound  up  with  the  sun, 
Would  break  in  ruin  if  we'd  turn  them  back. 

And  thus  the  New  Year  finds  us,  well  content 
With  what  is  done,  and  ready  to  begin  anew, 
And  strive,  as  we  have  striven,  the  year  just  fled, 
To  make  those  happy,  as  we  wished  them  so. 


250         LINES  IN   PLEASANT   PLACES. 


A  WORK-DAY   LYRIC. 

PUT  on  thy  working-dress,  my  soul, 
The  Sabbath-time  of  rest  give  o'er ; 

o 

Too  long  has  slumber  held  control, 
With  labor  spread  thy  steps  before. 

'Tis  not  for  thee  in  halcyon  bowers 
To  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  calm, 

And  wear  away  the  fleeting  hours 
'Mid  dulcet  strains  and  airs  of  balm. 

Thou'rt  called  unto  a  precious  trust  — 
A  wide  domain  demands  thy  care, 

To  vivify  its  torpid  dust, 

And  raise  a  grand  perfection  there. 

Illimitable  is  the  field 

On  which  thou  destined  art  to  toil, 
That  good  and  evil  fruits  will  yield 

From  active  seed  and  teeming  soil. 

God  help  thee  in  thy  strong  essay, 

My  soul,  scarce  used  to  strife  like  this ; 


A    WORK-DAT  LYRIC.  251 

With  an  abiding  trust  obey, 

And  find,  in  duty  done,  thy  bliss. 

Pluck  up  the  tares  of  sin  and  pride, 

Prune  off  excrescences  of  vice, 
Till  in  this  garden  is  descried 

Similitude  of  Paradise. 

This  garden  is  thine  own  domain, 

Its  flowers  and  weeds  are  all  thine  own  ; 

And  every  muscle  thou  must  strain, 
Else  good  in  thee  is  overgrown. 

Toil  on -until  the  Master  choose, 

And  then,  when  summoned  by  His  love, 

No  guerdon  for  thy  toil  thou'lt  lose 
In  the  great  Harvest  Home  above. 


252          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES, 


DREAMING  AND  WAKING. 

[On  receiving  a  beautiful  cup,  turned  from  a  fragment  of  the  O!d  Elm  Tree  on 
Boston  Common.] 

IT  is  a  valued  gift  that  comes  to  me, 

Freighted  with  grateful  memories  and  love  — 

A  cup  wrought  deftly  from  that  cherished  tree 
Which  Boston  holds  all  other  trees  above 

(The  ancient  Elm),  and  guards  as  jealously 
As  Brahmin  favorites  of  the  sacred  grove. 


A  cunning  work,  and  beauteous  to  the  view  ; 

But  deeper  meaning  does  the  object  wear 
To  me  than  trick  of  art :  I  see  anew 

Long-vanished  scenes  and  pleasures,  and  the  share 
My  younger  self  had  in  the  hours  that  flew, 

To  youth  replete  with  glad  emotions  rare. 

I  grasp  the  cup,  and  to  my  inner  sight 

It  seems  a  hand  reached  forth  to  clasp  my  own, 

Out  of  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  night 

Which  shrouds  about  the  Past's  deserted  throne, 

Or  some  loved  form,  emerging  to  the  light, 

That  long  from  outer  consciousness  had  flown. 


DREAMING  AND    WAKING.  253 

I  roam  again  beneath  the  verdant  shades, 
With  loving  voices  melting  in  my  ear, 

And  the  warm  thrill  my  soul  once  more  pervades, 
As  rapt  I  bow  the  cadence  glad  to  hear. 

Ah,  blest  companionship  !  again  that  aids 
To  make  life  hasten  with  a  better  cheer. 

The  old  tree  murmurs  blessings  on  the  hours 
That  make  the  total  of  the  summer  eves, 

The  moonbeams  flicker  through  its  shade  in  showers, 
And  laughter  ripples  in  its  rustling  leaves, 

And  love  again  unfolds  its  mystic  powers 

Through    the   sweet   influence  it  from  Night    re 
ceives. 


Romance  and  youth  !  blest  witcheries  ye  throw 
About  the  path  that  all  are  called  to  tread  ; 

And,  thus  reviewed,  my  spirit  feels  a  glow, 

Though  Youth  and  Romance  long  ago  have  fled, 

And  Time  has  dared  profane  my  locks  with  snow, 
And  young  companionship  is  with  the  dead. 

Well,  be  it  thus  ;  I'd  not  again  retrace, 
More  than  in  fancy,  the  enchanted  years  ; 

I  sit  and  look  the  Future  in  the  face, 

And  have  no  thought  of  sorrow  or  of  tears ; 

There  is  no  loss  kind  Heaven  will  not  replace 
In  the  broad  realm  that  to  our  gaze  appears. 


-54 


LINES  JN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


Thanks  for  the  gift,  my  old  and  constant  friend, 
Uniting  then  and  now  by  its  sweet  spell ; 

And  though  no  nectar  from  its  lip  descend, 
This  rill  of  song  mayhap  will  serve  as  well, 

Poured  from  a  source  that  ne'er  will  know  an  end, 
The  heart's  true  spring,  where  endless  friendships 
dwell. 


HOPE.  255 


HOPE. 

THE  heart  with  sorrow  bowed  shuts  out  the  light, 

And  broods  in  gloomy  shade,  in  alternate 

With  aught  of  cheer;  no  lift  permit,  or  gleam  ' 

Of  sunny  promise  to  pervade  the  air 

That  sluggish  stagnates  in  the  courts  of  woe. 

The  ear  is  pained  at  echoes  caught  from  life, 

That  surges  on  in  heedless  irrespect 

Of  all  beyond* itself,  and  muffled  thought 

Runs  o'er  the  gamut  of  absorbing  pain, 

Repelling  the  insidious  step  of  sound 

That  threats  the  reign  supreme  of  silent  grief. 

The 'hours  pass  drearily,  unnoted  save 

By  the  dull  throbs  of  misery  and  doubt, 

That  make  the  calendar  of  present  ill, 

Timed  by  the  horologue  of  dark  dismay. 

But,  as  the  carol  of  a  bird  obtrudes, 

Amid  the  pauses  of  a  summer  storm, 

When  all  is  darkest,  dreariest,  and  lone, 

Steals  in  a  note  of  HOPE,  which,  late  debarred, 

Stood  near  and  waited,  with  a  loving  trust, 

For  Griefs  reaction  from  its  weariness, 

To  come  again,  like  some  enkindling  light, 


256          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  banish  gloom  and  darkness  from  the  heart. 
'Tis  then,  the  spell  annulled  that  lately  bound, 
New  scenes  appear  ;  the  tide  of  human  life 
Again  rolls  on,  harmonious  as  before  ; 
Sweet  sounds  break  joyous  on  the  willing  ear  ; 
The  hours  their  import  wear  of  activeness, 
And  duty  due  and  done,  and  heaven  and  earth 
Take  brighter  garniture,  and  holy  cheer 
Its  effluence  imparts  to  haply  wake 
And  fill  to  plenitude  the  hungry  soul. 
O,  blessed  HOPE  !  what  were  we,  lacking  thee? 
Thine  is  the  mission  that  divinest  comes 
And  closest  touches  the  acute r  self, 
Coming,  like  some  sweet  benediction,  down, 
And  soothes  the  spirit's  turbulence  to  peace. 
E'en  now,  as  when  Pandora's  mythic  box, 
Unclasped,  released  the  goods  that  Jove  designed, 
—  Vagrant  and  lost,  that  might  have  staid  to  bless,  - 
We  feel  that  though  all  evil  may  assail, 
And  night  concentrate  round  us  in  eclipse 
Dark  as  the  fabled  cave  of  Erebus, 
With  HOPE  remaining,  we  may  ill  defy. 


A    VAGARY.  357 


A   VAGARY. 

MARGERY,  close  the  door  ;  we'll  sit  us  here 
And  muse  a  little  on  this  New  Year's  clay, 

Making  the  past  and  distant  things  come  near, 
Arousing  sleeping  fancy  into  play, 

And  strewing  flowers  along  the  wintry  way. 

Come,  sweetheart,  to  my  side,  that  I  may  look 
Upon  the  mirror  of  your  lustrous  eyes, 

And  read  my  fate  anew,  as  in  a  book 
Writ  full  of  most  bewitching  mysteries  ; 

Saving  while  perilling  by  their  bright  ministries. 

Those  ringlets,  Margery,  rich  in  glossy  gold, 
Lay  them  yet  closer,  dearest,  to  my  cheek ; 

The  whispered  word  is  tenderer,  manifold, 
And  silence  is  the  deepest  tone  we  speak, 

When,  themed  in  one,  our  souls  one  channel  seek. 

That  lily  hand  !  its  pulses  thrill  my  own 

With  sweet  emotion,  like  the  thrill  of  song; 

What  wealth's  possession  e'er  has  this  outshone 
That  lies  extended  on  my  palm  along  — 

This  little  hand  round  which  such  beauties  throng  t 


^  LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Smile,  dear  one,  thus ;  though  not  alone  the  smile 
Bespeaks  the  ruling  of  the  blissful  thought ; 

Tears  have  their  mission  of  delight  the  while, 
And  joy  is  fullest  when  with  sadness "fraught — 

A  fabric  of  a  deeper,  subtler  substance  wrought. 

There's  music,  Margery,  in  your  gentle  voice, 
Like  the  unwritten  melody  of  birds, 

That  in  its  utterance  bids  the  heart  rejoice, 
Though  it  take  not  the  garniture  of  words ; 

yEolus  sweeping  o'er  the  vibrant  chords. 

She's  gone  !  a  trick  of  tantalizing  Time 

That  plays  strange  fancies  with  the  old  and  young; 

Returning  scenes  of  romance  or  of  rhyme 
That  all  of  us  have  either  lived  or  sung ; 

Blossoms  of  joy  that  faded  soon  as  sprung. 

Gone,  Margery  !  Closed  the  door.  'Tis  thus  we  muse 
On  some  pet  memory  that  the  time  obtrudes, 

And  each  his  sweet  and  bitter  dream  renews 
Of  Might-have-beens  that  come  in  multitudes, 

While  fancy  holds  the  light,  and  all  of  fact  excludes. 

What  though  the  wintry  winds  blow  madly  by, 
Arid  aqueous  fingers  tap  the  window  pane, 

I  sit  in  slippered  state,  my  fireside  nigh, 
And,  with  a  reckless  vagrancy  of  brain, 

Weave  dreams  of  beauty  I  would  dream  again. 


CHRISTMAS    TOKEN.  259 


CHRISTMAS    TOKEN. 


[The  writer  awoke  on  Christmas  morning  and  found  that  Santa  Claus  had 
left  him  a  pen  wiper  of  unique  pattern  —  a  fairy  little  figure,  gorgeously  clad  — 
and  a  pleasant  note,  dedicating  all  the  taste  and  care  of  its  preparation  to  so 
ignoble  a  use.] 

A   WIPER. 


NOT  such  as  erst  in  Eden  wrought 

For  humankind  such  fearful  trouble, 
Changing  its  lot,  with  clover  fraught, 

For  substituted  chaff  and  stubble ; 
But  this  a  simple  Christmas  boon 

—  A  wipe  for  ink's  befouling  traces  — 
From  one  whose  heart  is  all  attune 

With  Christinas  joy  and  Christmas  graces. 

I  found,  as  morn  unsealed  my  eyes, 

What  I  at  first  supposed  a  fairy  — 
A  tiny  form,  in  gorgeous  guise, 

That  looked  remarkably  like  Mary  ; 
But  stony  was  her  vacant  stare, 

When  I,  well  pleased,  would  fain  address  her- 
I  missed  the  smile  out-beaming  there 

The  donor  gives  me  —  Heaven  bless  her  ! 


260          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

'Tis  but  a  trifle,  well  I  know. 

Requiring  little  for  its  buying, 
But,  better  far  than  pomp  or  show, 

The  kindness  that  is  underlying ; 
Profusion  may  attract  the  weak, 

But  'tis  a  pleasure  evanescent ; 
The  cost  cannot  our  love  bespeak  — 

The  heart  must  sanctify  the  present. 

And  shall  those  dainty  garments  be 

Profaned  by  ink's  tartarean  touches, 
And  all  the  taste  that  here  I  see 

Be  marred  by  black,  unseemly  smutches? 
Shall  those  bright  eyes  look  sadly  down, 

With  ever-growing  perturbation, 
And  frown  —  if  such  can  ever  frown  — 

At  such  a  fearful  desecration? 

No,  Mary,  by  my  Christmas  hope, 

I'll  keep  the  boon,  and  choicely  prize  it ; 
'Twill  newer  inspiration  ope, 

As  faithful  memory  sanctifies  it. 
And  future  years,  should  they  be  mine, 

Shall  mingle,  with  the  Christmas  chiming. 
The  thoughts  of  her  in  days  lang  syne 

Who  wrought  the  subject  for  my  rhyming. 


SABBATH-DAT  REFLECTIONS.          261 


SABBATH-DAY   REFLECTIONS. 

[Let  him  that  thinketh  he  standeth  take  heed  lest  he  fall.] 

O  MAN  !   how  pure,  and  true,  and  firm  thou  art, 
And  full  of  good  resolve  and  purpose  high, 

When  in  the  world  thou'rt  called  to  act  thy  part, 
A  man  'mongst  men,  beneath  the  common  sky ! 

There  is  no  power  can  shake  thy  strong  defence, 

Impregnable,  upon  a  rock  'tis  built ; 
And  though  fierce  storms  assail  to  drive  thee  thence. 

Within  its  arms  unharmed  remain  thou  wilt. 

Art  thou  not  able  ?  art  thou  not  a  man  ? 

And  where  there's  manhood  must  not  there  be  might  ? 
Alas  !  we  reason  thus,  and  slightly  scan 

The  allied  powers  against  us  in  the  fight. 

The  open  foes  that  hem  about  our  path 

We  may  in  sturdy  conflict  long  withstand  ; 

We  may  defy  their  threatenings  of  wrath, 
And  dare  the  fury  of  their  hostile  hand. 


262          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

But  there  be  foes  insidious  that  assail ; 

Not  in  the  storm,  nor  in  the  battle's  power, 
But  where  the  blandest  airs  of  life  prevail, 

And  in  the  calm  of  seeming  safety's  hour. 

Amid  the  flowers  the  Passions  smiling  hide, 
And  weave  about  the  soul  their  subtle  thrall, 

There  in  their  ambuscade  of  ill  to  bide 

Till  Duty's  voice  has  no  more  power  to  call. 

The  strong  man,  maugre  all  his  grand  defence 
And  resolution  that  no  power  could  sap, 

Falls  pronely  down  before  the  throne  of  sense, 
Or  slumbers  idly  in  Delilah's  lap. 

Thus  are  we  taught  this  lesson  for  our  good  : 
To  hold  humility  at  priceless  worth, 

And  in  the  weakness  of  our  brotherhood 
Regard  the  oneness  of  a  common  birth. 


THE  PEBBLE    ON  THE  SHORE. 


THE  PEBBLE  ON  THE   SHORE. 

A  WANDERER  upon  the  strand 

Of  the  wide  sea,  before  him  gleaming, 

Held  in  his  open,  curious  hand 

A  pebble,  subject  for  his  dreaming, 

Picked  from  the  white  encircling  sand, 
Polished  as  if  by  science  seeming. 

He  gazed  upon  its  perfect  form, 
As  true  as  though  by  care  invested, 

Wrought  by  the  force  of  many  a  storm, 
That  with  the  shore  erewhile  contested, 

And  left,  when  ceased  the  conflict  warm, 
In  humble  beauty  where  it  rested. 

•l  'Tis  but  a  little  stone,"  he  said, 

u  Scarce  worth  a  serious  inspection," 

But  through  his  mind  the  pebble  sped, 
And  waked  a  train  of  deep  reflection, 

Like  David's  in  Goliah's  head, 

That  brought  the  giant  to  subjection. 


264  LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

"Here  is  a  truth,  though  simply  told  : 
If  this  small  pebble,  idly  lying. 

Had  never  by  the  waves  been  rolled, 
Its  beauties  none  would  now  be  spying, 

But  in  befouling  sand  or  mould 

Its  worth  in  darkness  would  be  dying. 

"  But,  dashed  by  the  resistless  sea, 
It  gained  its  symmetry  by  action  ; 

One  round  of  motion,  constantly, 
Made  it  a  thing  of  satisfaction  ; 

This  moral  lesson  teaching  me, 

That  ne'er  will  lose  its  strong  attraction 

"  Man,  but  a  pebble  on  Time's  shore, 
His  soul  were  dead  from  inanition  ; 

Though  battling  waves  may  chafe  it  sore, 
And  make  its  lot  a  vexed  condition, 

It  by  the  trial  shines  the  more, 
Needing  the  polish  of  attrition. 

"And  all  the  beauty  that  it  knows, 
Drawn  forth  by  toil  in  mercy  given, 

Upon  the  shoal  in  brightness  shows, 

—  Bright  in  degree  that  it  has  striven  ;  - 

At  last  in  God's  own  hand  it  glows, 
A  jewel  fit  to  set  in  heaven." 


MT  CRUTCH.  265 


MY   CRUTCH. 

[When  the  gout  prevails  this  implement  serves  me  for  locomotive  purposes, 
and  also  summons  those  who  on  willing  and  loving  feet  obey  its  call.] 

A  SIMPLE  song  I  have  to  sing  — 

A  grateful  strain  whose  notes  shall  wing 

While  aches'  fell  brood  my  fibres  wring 

With  hideous  clutch, 
A  simple,  unpretending  thing: 

I  sing  my  crutch. 

A  patient  friend  in  time  of  need, 
Proving  its  truth  in  constant  deed  ; 
Too  noble  past  neglect  to  heed, 

—  Long  darkly  hid,  — 
It  comes  to  me  with  willing  speed 

As  soon  as  bid. 

How  grand  is  friendship  such  as  its ! 
It  vents  no  spleen  in  jealous  fits, 
Nor  in  its  teeth  holds  hard  the  bits 

At  fancied  slight, 
But  waits,  content,  when  need  admits, 

To  do  its  might. 


266          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Come  to  my  hand  again,  old  friend, 
And  thy  substantial  service  lend  ; 
We'll  show  the  limb  that  doth  offend 

There's  this  about  it ; 
While  it  rebels  we'lfgain  the  end 

To  do  without  it. 

In  stanchest  tones  thou  speak'st  to  me. 
From  all  offensive  twattle  free  : 
u  I  give  myself,  in  love,  to  thee  — 

On  me  rely ; 
The  failing  foot  and  recreant  knee 

I  will  supply. 

"  Thy  every  'hest  I  will  obey, 
From  no  occasion  slink  away  ; 
I'll  stick  to  thee  both  night  and  day, 

Nor  leave  again 
Till  health  shall  once  more  claim  its  sway 

And  banish  pain." 

I  am  a  king  !  —  my  sceptre  thou  ; 
My  kingdom  small,  I  must  allow, 
Though  big  enough  it  is,  I  trow, 

For  present  care  ; 
With  thee  I  touch  each  boundary  now 

From  my  throne  chair. 

I  hardly  dare  make  the  pretence 

Of  kingship  in  the  regal  sense, 

Lest  womanhood  should  take  offence, 


MT  CRUTCH.  267 

And  test  my  claim  ; 
Best  not  let  brag  have  prominence 
When  one  is  lame. 

[An  omission  of  forty-seven  limpid  verses.] 

But  best  of  friends  are  called  to  part ; 
I  trust  we  may,  with  all  my  heart, 
For  though,  all  goodness  as  thou  art, 

Unlike  a  wife, 
Thou'rt  not  the  "  counsellor  and  chart" 

I'd  choose  for  life. 

With  hope  to  cheer  the  hour  of  pain 
That  health's  bright  sun  will  shine  again. 
When  thou'rt  in  thy  room  attic  lain, 

My  tough  old  friend, 
I'll  prize  thee  now  with  might  and  main 

Till  mine  shall  end. 


268         LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


MUSIC   OF   THE   FLAIL. 

THE  music  of  the  year  is  not  confined 

To  the  gay  spring-time's  overture  of  sweets, 
Nor  summer's  breathings  on  the  scented  wind, 

Nor  that  the  ear  in  autumn's  cadence  greets. 
But  when  the  snow   comes   down    and   clothes   the 
plain, 

And  o'er  the  house-top  roars  the  boisterous  gale, 
Above  the  storm  and  the  fierce  wind's  refrain 

Ascends  the  music  of  the  thresher's  Hail ; 
A  charming  minstrelsy  of  glad  accord, 

That  tells  of  plenty  and  of  hearty  cheer : 
Of  wealth  and  joy,  the  farmer's  rich  reward. 

The  crowning  glory  of  the  busy  year ; 
A  peaceful,  quiet,  unpretending  lay, 
But  pleasant  music  on  a  wintry  day. 

Monotonous  its  tone  ;  no  mighty  song 

Is  that  which  rises  from  the  threshing-floor  — 

Its  time  but  measured  by  the  heart-beats  strong 
Of  him  who  long  has  conned  its  measure  o'er  ; 

Its  only  listener,  maybe,  the  sweet  bird 
That  sits  awaiting  on  the  frozen  spray, 


MUSIC    OF   THE  FLAIL.  269 

Or  the  slim  weasel,  that  abroad  has  stirred, 
Disturbed  from  his  reflections  in  the  hay. 

Yet,  like  the  rivulet,  alone  it  pours 

Its  mellow  accents  on  the  passing  time  ; 

And  though  no  turbulence  of  glad  encores 
Bespeaks  the  welcome  of  its  note  sublime, 

The  farmer  loves  the  simple,  sinewy  strain, 

Whose  pulses  throb  with  measures  of  the  grain. 


270          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


THE   ISLAND   DEFENDERS. 

["  I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me."] 

THAT  most  men  feel 

A  warlike  zeal 

And  glory  in  feathers  and  glistening  steel, 
Is  scarce  to  be  doubted,  for  everywhere, 

In  cities  or  plains, 

We  hear  the  strains 
Of  martial  music  upon  the  air, 

And  the  measured  tread, 

In  war's  parade, 

Of  soldiers  marching  here  and  there. 
That  is,  at  seasons  when  comfort  prevails, 
And  zeal  isn't  killed  by  wintry  gales, 
Like  those  at  Valley  Forge  which  we  read  of, 
Where  the  soldiers  everything  were  in  need  of, 
But  courage,  which  never  a  moment  ran  low, 
E'en  though  their  life-blood  crimsoned  the  snow ! 

I  have  a  good  story 

Of  drums,  guns,  and  glory  ; 
Which,  if  you  please,  I  would  fain  lay  before  ye. 


THE  ISLAND  DEFENDERS.  271 

It  has  always  been  a  Nantucket  boast, 
Whenever  war  has  threatened  the  coast, 
That  taking  no  arms  for  the  right  or  the  wrong 
In  her  own  defencelessness  she  was  strong ; 
A  theory  which  I  think  a  fact  is, 
And  wish  'twere  oftener  put  in  practice. 
But  the  tap  of  the  drum 
Touched  the  tympanum 

Of  the  younger  brood  of  the  "  Island  Home," 
Who  pricked  up  their  ears  with  pride  to  hear  it 
In  the  glow  of  an  un-Nantucket  spirit  — 
A  place  supposed,  because  so  greaseful, 
It  couldn't  be  anything  but  peaceful, 
Like  a  homo  very  fat  and  lardy, 
Who  to  quarrel  is  always  tardy. 

So  the  young  men  talked,  and  then  they  voted 
That  they'd  be  armed,  and  plumed,  and  coated, 
That  they  would  march,  in  summer  weather, 
About  the  peaceful  isle  together, 
With  gleaming  arms  and  banners  gay 
In  the  custom-sanctioned  soldierly  way. 

Then  they  arose 

And  bought  their  clo'es, 
And  guns,  and  all  such  traps  as  those, 
Little  dreaming,  so  well  things  sped, 
Of  such  a  thing  as  breakers  ahead ! 

Breakers ! 

Hard  and  unbending  as  granite  ledges 
That  rive  the  ships  with  their  spiteful  wedges, 

The  Quakers ! 


272          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

They're  always  somehow  in  the  way: 
We  remember  in  Pennsylvania, 
How  the  Quaker  vote  was  looked  for  to  win 
The  game  for  some  one,  but  it  didn't  come  in  ! 

And  up  they  stood 

In  Friend-ly  mood, 
While  indignation  trembling  sat 
On  the  spacious  brim  of  every  hat, 
And  swore  a  few, 
As  Quakers  do, 

That  an  armed  band  were  a  thing  of  sin 
And  shouldn't,  with  their  consent,  come  in  ! 

They  said,  "  Shall  we, 
In  the  midst  of  the  sea, 
Oppose  ourselves  to  the  enemy, " 
And  all  affirmed,  "  Nay,  verily  ; 

For  invading  foes  would  soon  despoil 

All  that  we  prize  upon  our  soil, 

And  burn  with  vengeance  and  burn  our  oil. 

And  that  wouldn't  be  according  to  Hoyle  ! 
Nay,  verily, 
We'll  let  them  be, 
And  not  have  any  soldieree." 

Confusion  seized  the  bosoms  then 
Of  those  bold,  warlike  island  men, 

Their  wish  rejected  ; 

For  the  "  Quaker  vote  "  was  the  biggest  there, 
And,  through  the  force  that  numbers  bear, 

Must  be  respected. 


THE  ISLAND  DEFENDERS.  273 

But  one,  the  boldest  of  the  whole, 
With  no  despondency  of  soul, 

Did  thus  advise  : 

To  win  the  thing  they  had  in  view 
And  put  the  corps  in  triumph  through 

By  compromise ! 

A  very  Daniel,  all  of  them  said, 
Nantucket  Island  had  visited  ! 

And  the  wise  plan 

Of  the  astute  man 
Somehow  in  this  line  of  argument  ran  : 

That  they'd  seek  a  charter, 

Agreeing  that,  arter, 

When  war  called  upon  them  to  slay  and  to  slaughter, 
They'd  throw   down  their    arms    with    consciences 

tender, 
And  disband  themselves  with  a  graceful  surrender  ! 

And  thus  grew  the  corps 

On  Nantucket  shore 
As  peaceful  inclined  as  ever  before, 

E'en  though  the  drum, 

And  the  waving  plume, 

And    the   banner,    were    known    round    the    island 
home. 

18 


274          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


CHILDISH  VESPERS. 

FATHER  !  in  thy  loving  sight, 
Whether  in  the  day  or  night, 
Hither  bend  thy  listening  ear 
And  my  supplication  hear. 

Though  I'm  but  a  little  child, 
Thy  dear  Son  on  children  smiled, 
And  his  spirit  in  my  breast 
Gives  me  hope  in  thee  to  rest. 

As  the  night  descends  apace, 
Fill  its  shadows  with  thy  grace, 
That,  though  seeing  not,  to  me 
All  the  world  is  full  of  thee. 

As  the  moonbeams  now  illume 
Every  corner  of  my  room, 
May  thy  smile  its  grace  impart, 
And  with  joy  pervade  my  heart. 


CHILDISH    VESPERS.  275 

Keep  me  sinless,  Father,  pray, 
With  thy  truth  about  my  way, 
Touch  my  eyes,  that  I  may  see 
Thou  art  with  me  constantly. 

Through  the  gloom,  enfolding  all, 
Thou  canst  hear  me  when  I  call ; 
Answer  grant  in  love's  increase, 
And  sweet  consciousness  of  peace. 


276         LINES  IN   PLEASANT   PLACES. 


THE   SEWING-CIRCLE. 

NEVER  was  pleasanter  scene  nor  time. 
Told  in  story,  or  sung  in  rhyme, 
Than  the  Sewing-circle,  that  common  thing, 
Where  glad  amenities  grow  and  spring 
'Neath  Charity's  light  and  loving  sway, 
And  the  magic  of  joy  is  felt  alway. 

Spirits  of  good,  in  concert  sweet, 
Mingle  therein  on  noiseless  feet, 
And  speak  from  warm  lips  rosy-bright, 
And  smile  from  eyes  of  beaming  light, 
And  gleam  along  the  subtle  wires 
With  feeling  that  the  scene  inspires. 

Ah,  grand  the  circle  thus  combined, 
For  usefulness  and  pleasure  joined  ! 
And,  gathering  from  life's  passing  hours, 
A  handful  of  its  fragrant  flowers, 
They  feel,  the  while,  the  blessed  sense 
Of  genuine  benevolence. 

The  nimble  fingers  deftly  stray 
Over  their  task  in  busy  way, 


THE   SEWING-CIRCLE. 

While  the  glad  tongue  and  brimming  heart 
Take  in  the  busy  scene  a  part ; 
But  there,  beside  the  active  show, 
Enacts  a  scene  the  angels  know. 

For  unseen  fingers  dexterous  move. 
In  industry  and  tender  love, 
To  weave,  in  texture  of  the  soul, 
Those  stitches  wrought  in  generous  dole, 
To  form  a  garb  the  ones  to  bless 
Who  labor  in  unselfishness. 

Thus  every  thought  that's  given  the  poor 
Shall  the  kind  thinker's  good  insure  ; 
For  every  tear  of  pity  shed, 
A  gem  shall  there  appear  instead  ; 
And  every  stitch  that's  woven  in  love, 
A  triple  bond  of  grace  shall  prove. 

We  all  u  build  better  than  we  know," 
And  though  things  humble  seem,  and  slow, 
They  may  sustain  a  good  immense 
In  the  grand  scheme  of  Providence  ; 
And  e'en  a  simple  heart-blest  stitch 
May  be  endowed  with  province  rich. 


278          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


TORN   DOWN. 

[A  tribute  to  an  old  homestead,  by  one  who  beneath  its  roof  experienced 
what  all  considerations  of  local  improvement  cannot  reconcile  him  to  the 
loss  of.] 

THUS  sacrilegious  hands  are  laid 
Upon  thy  frame,  old  hallowed  pile  ; 

My  heart  the  havoc  would  have  stayed, 
And  saved  thee  for  a  longer  while. 

Thou  wert  my  nest ;  my  fledglings  here 
First  learnt  the  active  verb  to  live  ; 

And  love  controlled  the  little  sphere 
With  all  the  joy  that  life  could  give  — 

The  scene  of  sweet  domestic  rest, 
Where  hope  and  trust  together  grew, 

And  God's  own  smile  was  manifest 
In  every  trial  that  we  knew. 

Here,  too,  the  dread  Destroyer  came, 
And  bore  the  fairest  from  our  side  ; 

But  resignation  lit  its  flame, 

And  soothed  us  when  our  darling  died. 


TORN  DOWN.  279 

It  bound  us  by  still  stronger  ties, 

And  heavenly  love  our  hearts  o'erfilled  ; 

We  dried,  while  looking  up,  our  eyes, 
And  all  rebellious  feelings  stilled. 

O,  joy  and  gladness  of  the  past ! 

O  grief,  that  had  a  mission  blest ! 
There's  glory  in  the  retrocast 

That  doth  the  crumbling  scene  invest. 

There,  through  the  sundered  wall,  I  see 
The  garden  where  my  children  played  ; 

There  stood  the  fragrant  lilac  tree, 

There  where  the  pear  tree  cast  its  shade ; 

There  was  the  flower-bed,  where  grew 
The  garden  gems  of  gorgeous  dyes, 

That  seemed  as  if  they  beauty  drew 
From  my  dear  Nannie's  sunny  eyes. 

The  grape-vine  o'er  the  pathway  hung, 
Filled  with  the  choicest  purple  bloom, 

And  roses  on  the  still  air  flung 
Their  ecstasy  of  glad  perfume. 

'Tis  gone  !  the  still  and  active  life  ; 

The  place  is  needed  for  to-day, 
And  all  its  joy  and  all  its  strife 

Pass  like  a  morning  dream  away. 


280          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

But  from  possession  of  my  heart, 
In  memory's  consecrated  shrine, 

Ne'er  shall  that  dear  old  scene  depart 
That  early  manhood  claimed  as  mine. 

E'en  though  it  fade  away  from  view, 
And  gone  the  bliss  of  former  hours, 

In  sweet  affection's  sun  and  dew 

Shall  live  again  its  fruits  and  flowers. 


THE   SKATERS. 


281 


THE   SKATERS. 

I  HEAR  the  sound  of  boyish  laughter  break 

In  joyous  cadence  on  the  crispy  air, 
Where  in  the  sunshine  gleams  the  burnished  lake, 

On  whose  bright  surface  skaters,  here  and  there, 
Their  varied  daring  evolutions  make  ; 

While  Fun  holds  carnival  with  unction  rare, 

And  hearts  untrammelled  sweet  enjoyment  share. 

Like  birds  they  cleave  the  air  with  graceful  pose, 

In  self-abandon,  by  excitement  led,  • 
And  feats  of  bravest  merit  they  disclose  ; 

We  watch  admiringly  the  rimy  thread 
That  follows  in  the  track  by  which  each  goes, — 

A  record,  by  the  skater  to  be  read, 

Of  steady  nerve  and  most  artistic  tread. 

O  youth  !  what  passion  in  a  scene  like  this, 

With  every  manly  attribute  aglow ! 
Through  bold  endeavor  is  the  way  to  bliss, 

That  but  triumphant  excellence  may  know  ; 
Yet  grasping,  for  the  nonce,  success,  I  wis, 

Is  what  few  here  in  after  life  will  show, 

Where  boyhood's  promise  dies  too  oft  'neath  man 
hood's  snow. 


282          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

The  spirit  lives ;  but  though  we  keenly  feel 

The  animation  of  the  passing  scene. 
And  see  old  joys  in  these  anew  reveal, 

Forgetting  all  the  lapse  of  time  between, 
Our  ear  accordant  with  the  ringing  steel 

That  carves  in  monograms  the  crystal  sheen, 

We  scarce  could  do  the  deeds  we  then  achieved,  1 
ween. 

And  thus  we  stand  in  contemplation  lost, 

Watching  and  feeling  all  the  waves  of  fun, 
Just  as  the  genius  of  the  last  year's  frost 

Might  look  on  bud  and  bloom  next  spring-time's 

sun ; 
Or  like  some  veteran  soldier,  battle-tost, 

Who  from  its  bracket  takes  his  ancient  gun, 
And  talks  of  strife  and  wounds,  and  tells  how  Melds 
were  won. 


THE   CORNER  POLICEMAN.  283 


THE   CORNER  POLICEMAN. 

HERE  I  stand,  out  in  the  street, 
Dressed  in  my  uniform  trim  and  neat, 
A-cultivating  my  lonely  beat, 
In  constant  danger,  and  can't  retreat, 
Of  being  mashed  to  sassage  meat, 
To  keep  secure  the  damsels  sweet, 
Who  cross  the  pave  where  horses  fleet 
Dash  along  with  busy  feet. 

I  takes  their  bridles  and  bids  'em  whoa  ! 
(I  mean  the  horses  I  'spose  you  know,) 
While  ladies  by  in  safety  go, 
And  takes  'em  round  the  waist,  to  show 
What  protection  the  law  can  throw,  — 
My  arm's  the  City  of  Boston,  —  and  so, 
With  all  benevolence  aglow, 
I  tap  my  zeal  and  let  it  flow. 

No  matter  how  the  cartmen  swear, 
The  C'lossus  of  roads,  I  stand  right  there. 
"  Gentlemen,"  says  I,  "  stay  where  you  are, 
While  I  for  the  young  woman  care. 


284          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Come  here,  my  dear,  my  right  arm  share 

Lean  on  it,  I  am  able  to  bear." 

Such  gratitude  as  they  declare  ! 

But  don't  the  teamsters  tear  their  hair ! 

The  danger  I  don't  mind  a  mite, 
If  I  can  save  the  dears  from  fright, 
Who  come  to  me  excited  quite 
For  me  to  put  them  over  right ; 
'Tis  wonderful  how  many  try't ! 
In  such  a  service  I  delight, 
Regarding  not  the  teamsters'  spite, 
Whose  bark  is  far  worse  than  their  bite. 

And  thus  I  stand,  'gainst  team  and  cart ; 
My  orders  is  my  guide  and  chart, 
Nor  care  a  bit  whose  withers  smart ; 
Yielding  to  ladies  arm  and  heart, 
And  doing  all  my  gentle  art, 
To  keep  them  safe  where  horses  dart, 
And  drivers  wending  to  the  mart 
Are  held  to  keep  ten  feet  apart. 


THE    OLD   STAGE-COACH.  285 


THE   OLD   STAGE-COACH. 

THE  old  stage-horn  to  the  ear  of  the  boy 
Rang  sharp  and  clear  with  a  note  of  joy, 
As  onward  rolled  o'er  the  dusty  road 
The  bulky  stage  with  its  human  load, 
And  the  echoing  elves  on  hill  and  plain 
Sent  the  erring  music  back  again, 
Heralding  the  quick  approach, 
To  the  wayside  inn,  of  the  old  stage-coacli. 

I  see  it  now  in  its  stately  pride, 
As  then  before  me  I  saw  it  glide ; 
Its  prancing  coursers,  as  if  aware 
Of  the  glory  in  which  they  held  a  share, 
Dashed  o'er  the  way  with  a  tattoo  beat 
That  rang  out  clear  from  their  iron  feet ; 
The  old  coach  rocking  like  ship  on  the  sea, 
And  the  driver  the  envy  and  joy  of  me. 

Ah,  great  the  pride  by  his  side  to  sit, 
To  list  to  his  budget  of  wisdom  or  wit ; 
And  of  all  the  places  by  boyhood  sought 
To  that  high  station  all  else  were  nought. 


286         LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

A  charm  pervaded  each  word  he  spoke, 
That  shone  in  story  or  sparkled  in  joke, 
And  the  brightest  genius  was  murk  and  dim 
To  the  glory  of  fun  revealed  in  him. 

And  that  was  the  seat  for  the  grandest  view, 
As  by  scenes  of  beauty  the  coursers  flew, 
While  the  pleasant  breezes  of  summer  bore 
The  breath  of  wild  flowers  the  meadow  o'er, 
And  fanned  the  brow  that  the  ardent  sun 
Sprent  with  a  glow  of  commingled  dun, 
Giving  a  boon  to  the  ouside  fare 
That  inside  swelterers  could  not  share. 

By  the  meadow  and  over  the  bridge, 
Sinking  the  valley  and  mounting  the  ridge, 
Hearing  the  carol  from  far  away 
Of  the  farmers  busy  with  their  hay, 
Catching  the  shapes  of  the  distant  hills, 
Marking  the  course  of  the  silver  rills  — 
This  was  the  pleasure  the  passenger  knew 
Whom  the  old  stage-coach  bore  safely  through. 

But  the  reign  of  the  old  stage-coach  is  o'er, 
And  the  driver  tells  his  tales  no  more  ; 
The  iron  horse  takes  the  courser's  place, 
With  fiery  snort  and  rapider  pace  ; 
The  sound  of  the  horn  gives  place  to  the  bell 
And  the  din  of  the  whistle's  warning  knell, 
With  rush  and  roar  of  imprisoned  steam, 
And  the  old  stage-coach  subsides  to  a  dream. 


UNCONSIDERED  TRIFLES. 


THERE  was  a  fire  the  other  day, 

And  the  bell  in  fury  clanged  away, 

Making  a  loud  and  furious  din, 

Public  cognizance  to  \vin. 

Fire!    Fire!    Fire!    Fire! 

The  noise  each  moment  rising  higher, 

While  at  the  rope,  with  brawny  hand, 

A  sturdy  Irishman  did  stand. 

The  people  rushed  in  wildest  mood 

To  where  the  bellman,  ringing,  stood. 

"  O,  where's  the  fire,  my  man?"  said  they  : 

"  At  the  fire,"  he  said,  and  pulled  away. 

"  Arid  where,  O  man,  may  the  fire  be?" 

kt  Never  a  bit  I  know,"  said  he. 

u  Then  why  ring'st  thou,  O  man  of  nerve  ?" 

No  whit  did  he  from  ringing  swerve, 

But  said,  as  he  swung  the  bell  in  air, 

kt  Be  jabers,  I  don't  know  nor  care." 

Then  I  did  marvel  this  man  to  hear, 

But  it  all  proper  did  appear, 

Because,  unto  myself  I  said, 

He  only  acts  as  he  is  led. 


288 


LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  thus  it  is  with  men  and  boys, 
That,  where  you  hear  the  greatest  noise, 
'Mongst  those  who  make  the  biggest  rout 
The  least  is  known  what  'tis  about. 
So  he  rung  on  till  weary  grown, 
And  then  he  let  the  bell  alone. 
'Tis  thus  with  every  noisy  elf: 
Reply  not,  and  he  dies  himself. 


IN  the  crowded  street  we  found  him, 
With  the  busy  world  around  him, 
'Neath  a  potent  spell  that  bound  him, 

With  suspended  footstep  there, 
Smiling  on  a  neighboring  "  winder," 
WTith  a  vision  nought  to  hinder, 
And  a  heart  as  quick  as  tinder, 

Caught  by  charms  surpassing  fair. 

There  upon  him,  sweetly  gazing, 
Were  two  eyes  like  diamonds  blazing, 
All  his  sense  and  soul  amazing 

to" 

And  he  stood  like  one  alone, 
Jostled  by  the  people  rushing, 
—  Heeding  not  the  jarring,  crushing, 
All  his  soft  emotions  gushing,  — 

Vowing  he'd  make  her  his  own. 

In  his  arms  he'd  fain  infold  her, 
But  his  worldly-wise  beholder 
Seized  him  rudely  by  the  shoulder, 

—  Turned  they  on  the  Circe  their  backs  ; 


UNCONSIDERED    TRIFLES.  289 

Leaving  without  ceremony,  — 
"  Don't  you  see,"  he  said,  "  you  looney, 
That  this  maid,  on  whom  you're  spooney, 
Is  an  image  made  of  wax?" 


YON  clock  —  the  Dutchman  in  the  window  there, 

With  broad-brimmed  hat  and  spacious  boots  and 

breeches, 
Who  gazes  forth  with  ever-brazen  stare  — 

This  lesson  to  my  comprehension  teaches : 
He  sembles  well  the  ones  of  human  kind, 

—  The  host  of  epicurean  sinners, 
Who  seem  to  have  one  only  thing  in  mind. — 

A  good  appreciation  of  their  dinners. 
He  thrusts  his  rotund  form  obscenely  out, 

The  dial  on  his  breast  his  chief  attraction, 
And  rolls  his  eyes  complacently  about, 

As  though  he'd  done  some  meritorious  action  ; 
But  here's  the  moral  point  of  this  my  rhyme  : 
His  thought  is  on  his  stomach  all  the  time. 


A  BLUE  coat !  —  ah,  my  country's  uniform  ! 
Here  is  a  relic  of  the  battle-storm  — 
A  wounded  soldier.     Gallantly  he  stood 
Where  fire  and  death  raged  round  him  like  a  flood. 
Not  scathless,  though  ;  the  deadly  missiles  flew, 
And  stamped  with  martyrdom  his  courage  true. 
No  more  for  him  the  dulcet  strain  will  sound : 
To  lead  him  through  the  mazy's  giddy  round  ; 
No  more  the  agile  foot  will  music  beat 
19 


LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Upon  the  pavement  of  the  sounding  street ; 

No  more  on  eager  errands  will  he  speed 

At  call  of  love,  or  call  of  human  need. 

But  proud  his  mien,  escaped  from  war's  alarms, 

Who  legless  stands  and  impor-tunes  for  alms. 

An  empty  sleeve  is  badge  of  honor  more 

Than  its  stout  wearer  e'er  enjoyed  before  — 

A  hero's  glory,  speaking  like  a  trump, 

Just  like  a  politician,  from  the  stump  ; 

Eloquently  pleading  with  his  whole-limbed  brother, 

The  while  an  organ-crank  he  turns  with  t'other. 


THE  wind  went  howling  round  the  town, 

Turning  things  everywhere  upside  down, 

Ripping  off  roofs  and  chimney-tops, 

And  throwing  bricks  round  thick  as  hops ; 

The  air  was  filled  with  hurtling  beams, 

And  the  water  poured  adown  in  streams ; 

The  steeples  toppled,  and  falling  seemed, 

As  the  fierce  gale  blew  and  wildly  screamed ; 

The  giant  trees  uprooted  lay 

Where  the  fierce  tempest  sped  its  way  ; 

But  wonderful  more  than  all  that  befell 

Was  the  fate  of  the  man  with  the  umberel  ! 

When  the  rain  came  down  in  angry  spitv 

His  umberel  he  held  upright, 

And  round  and  round  the  circling  gale 

Swept  him  on  as  if  under  sail. 

He  couldn't  stop,  but  twirled  about, 

Still  holding  on  to  the  handle  stout, 


te, 


UNCONSIDERED    TRIFLES.  291 

While  fear  to  strength  new  power  lent, 

Till  the  gust  prevailed  and  up  he  went ! 

Up  o'er  the  house-tops  then  sailed  he, 

Like  a  feather  borne  on  the  surging  sea  ; 

Up  and  up  to  a  fearful  height, 

Up  and  up  till  out  of  sight, 

And  when  last  seen  he  gave  a  yell, 

But  still  held  on  to  the  umberel ! 

Folks  looked  from  window  and  from  door  — 

They  stared  ;  but  he  appeared  no  more  ; 

They  shuddered  and  whispered,  "  Who  can  tell 

The  fate  of  the  man  and  his  umberel?" 

Next  day  a  mariner  out  at  sea 

Spied,  away  up  in  the  canopy, 

A  something  seeming  a  monstrous  bird, 

From  which  a  feeble  cry  was  heard  : 

"  Schooner,  ahoy  !  —  arriving  tell 

That  you  saw  the  man  and  his  umberel ! " 

Only  a  moment  the  man  was  seen, 

Then  melted  away  in  the  blue  serene ; 

And  nevermore  will  he  be  found 

These  gay  and  festive  scenes  around. 

And  gossips  long  the  tale  will  tell 

How  the  man  went  up  with  his  umberel ! 


O,  THIS  dismal  influenza ! 

O,  this  fearful  influenza! 

With  its  cough,  and  cough,  and  coffin, 

And  its  bronchial  titillation, 

While  the  lacerated  thorax 


292          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

Thrills  with  frequent  paroxysms, 

And  the  nasal  promontory 

Seems  as  large  as  Mount  Monadnoc, 

And  inflammatory  ague 

With  fierce  pain  distorts  the  features, 

And  the  quakes  sternutatory, 

Threatening,  strive  to  shake  one's  head  off! 

All  the  life  that  moves  around  me 

Takes  the  tone  of  influenza, 

With  its  choking  and  its  coughing, 

With  its  barking  and  its  aching, 

With  its  ague  and  its  cold  chills, 

Redolent  with  blasts  of  east  wind, 

—  Blasted  bad  some  ruffian  called  it,  — 

Full  of  sin  and  rheumatism. 


I  SAW  an  organ  grinder  in  the  street, 

And  he  did  turn  his  crank  in  vigorous  way, 

While  down  about  the  organ  grinder's  feet 
There  was  a  little  sad-faced  ape  at  play. 

Upon  his  form  a  tawdry  ragged  gown, 

A  cap  of  velveteen  upon  his  head, 
And  there  he  stood  and  looked  all  up  and  down, 

For  any  stray  remunerative  "  red." 

And  then  methought  what  grievous  wrong  was  here, 
To  drag  this  ape  from  native  jungle  bright, 

From  home  and  friends  that  doubtless  he  held  dear, 
To  pick  up  nickels  for  this  Israelite  ! 

And  then  the  insult  added  to  the  wrong, 
Of  putting  on  such  duds  to  wear  as  those ! 


UNCONSIDERED    TRIFLES.  293 

To  move,  degraded,  human  folks  among, 
In  such  array  of  ignominious  clo'es  ! 

No  wonder  he  was  sad,  but  still  his  eye 

Quick  wandered  round  with  eager,  anxious  bent, 

The  first  faint  hint  of  "  buckshcesh  "  to  espy, 
Just  like  a  greyhound  eager  for  the  cent. 

And  here  again  most  plainly  I  could  scan 
How  bad  example  may  corrupt  the  heart ; 

This  ape,  thus  through  companionship  with  man, 
Had  grown  corrupted  in  his  better  part. 

Forgot  the  habits  of  his  early  days, 

The  customs  of  his  early  sylvan  life, 
He  now  pursues  these  mercenary  ways, 

And  seeks  for  pennies  with  persistent  strife. 

A  money-catcher  in  a  velvet  cap  — 
My  sympathy  I  fear  is  all  misplaced  ; 

He  is  no  better  than  some  broker  chap 
With  mean  cupidity  and  greed  debased. 

As  I  along  the  street  did  go 

The  while  came  down  the  powdery  snow, 

I  saw  a  lady,  gayly  dight, 

Pass  o'er  the  pave  with  footstep  light. 

Her  sprightly  air,  her  beauteous  form, 

Carried  my  very  heart  by  storm. 

She  seemed  to  me  embodied  grace, 

An  angel's  sweetness  in  her  face, 

A  complaisance  almost  divine, 

Wherein  the  seraph  seemed  to  shine. 


294          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES 

I  gazed  entranced,  as  on  she  sped, 
With  head  erect  and  airy  tread  ; 
The  while  my  heart  beat  fast  and  strong 
I  marked  her  step  the  path  along, 
When,  as  she  pressed  the  treacherous  glare 
Of  ice  that  clothed  the  pavement  there, 
Her  feet  from  their  adhesion  tripped, 
And  down  upon  the  ice  she  slipped ! 
Horrors  !  the  volume  of  my  blood 
Within  its  channels  stagnant  stood. 
I  rushed  to  aid  her  as  she  lay, 
A  helpless  form  upon  the  way  ; 
But,  as  I  reached  to  help  the  maid, 
I  found  myself  beside  her  laid  !  — 
My  feet  had  touched  the  glairy  spot, 
And  down  I  tumbled  as  if  shot. 
She  gained  her  feet,  and  laughing  scorn 
She  gave  me  as  I  lay  forlorn, 
And  said,  "  Young  man,  take  my  advice,  — 
Don't  try  so  big  a  thing  on  ice !  " 
Then  vanished  from  my  vision's  bliss, 
Nor  have  I  seen  anything  of  her  from  that 
day  to  this. 


CONDUCTOR  Gilmore  lay  in  sleep, 

Calmly  lay  in  slumber  deep, 

When,  rattling  through  the  concave  higji, 

Broke  the  thunder  of  the  sky. 

Gilmore,  in  his  dreaming,  heard, 

And  his  inmost  soul  was  stirred, 

For  he  saw  before  him  stand 


UNCONS1DERED    TRIFLES.  295 

Choristers  from  every  land, 

With  fiddlers,  trumpeters,  here  come, 

And  ophicleide  and  kettle  drum, 

Shouting,  and  sounding  of  'em  all 

In  the  great  Peace  Festival. 

His  soul  to  the  occasion  rose ; 

His  baton,  moved  with  rapid  blows ; 

His  blazing  eye  with  fervor  burned 

As  this  and  t'other  way  it  turned  ; 

When,  as  there  came  a  heavier  crash, 

As  though  the  world  had  gone  to  smash, 

He  shouted  with  an  eager  face, 

Don't  bear  so  heavy  on  the  bass! 

How  dull  it  is  !  and  so  are  we  ; 
We  can't  shake  off  the  lethargy 
That  binds  us  down,  do  what  we  may, 
Upon  this  rainy,  dismal  day. 

The  skies  are  black,  our  feelings  blue  ; 
The  sloppy  clouds  are  leaking  through, 
And  rain-drops  spatter  every  way 
Upon  this  rainy,  dismal  day. 

We  cannot  think,  we  cannot  talk, 
We  cannot  run,  we  cannot  walk  ; 
And  here  immured  we're  forced  to  stay 
Upon  this  rainy,  dismal  day. 

No  neighbor  comes  with  kindly  word, 
No  friendly  salutation's  heard, 
But  all  is  dark,  without  one  ray 
To  cheer  this  rainy,  dismal  day. 


296          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  worse  than  everything  to  tell 
Somebody's  stole  our  umberel ; 
O  Fate  !  the  camel's  back  gives  way 
Upon  this  rainy,  dismal  day. 

IF  you  wish  to  know  what  you  should  do 
At  church,  the  mercury  ninety-two, 
Sit  right  down  in  your  cushioned  pew, 
With  the  cool  air  drawing  freshly  through, 
And  put  your  feet  upon  the  seat 
And  lean  your  body  in  manner  meet, 
Then  fix  your  eyes  on  the  parson's  face 
As  if  you'd  note  his  words  of  grace  ; — 
But  the  sound  of  his  voice  is  all  you  hear, 
That  comes  like  a  hum  to  your  Sunday  ear  ; 
Make  no  effort  to  catch  his  theme ; 
'Tis  a  murmur  of  waters  afar  you  deem  ; 
Then  as  its  drone  on  your  ear  doth  sweep, 
Drop  off  gently,  calmly  to  sleep ; 
And  the  preacher  will  vow,  as  he  sees  you  there. 
With  your  solemn  and  very  reverent  air, 
That,  of  all  his  flock  that  are  based  upon  rock 
He  hasn't  another  like  you,  old  cock. 


MRS.  BEN  BLIFKINS  (may  she  ne'er  grow  less) 

Awoke  one  night  with  nightmare,  in  distress, 

And  saw  within  the  quiet  of  her  room, 

While  from  his  meerschaum  poured  a  rich  perfume. 

Her  Blifkins  writing  in  a  little  book  ; 

Excessive  sharpness  made  her  keenly  look, 


UNCONSIDERED    T1UFLES.  297 

And  to  her  Benja.  wonderingly  she  said, — 
"  What  are  you  writing?"    Blifkins  raised  his  head, 
And,  with  a  smile  expressing  more  than  words, 
Replied,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  their  lords." 
"  And  is  mine  one?"  said  she.  "  Nay,  ne'er  a  show." 
Then,  with  a  voice  significantly  low, 
She  said,  "  Take  up  your  pencil  now,  my  pet, 
And  write  me  one  who  loves  to  make  'em  fret." 
Blifkins  thus  wrote  and  vanished  in  the  night, 
But  came  in  soon  with  a  big  camphene  light, 
And  lo  !  among  the  names  a  fret  confest, 
Mrs.  B.  Blifkin's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


O  GLORIOUS  Fourth  !  how  patriotism  fires 

(Confound  your  slow-match,  careless  boy  !)  to 

hear  the 

Music  of  this  grand  morn,  whose  note  inspires 
(You  tin  horn  tooter,  would  that  I  were  near 

thee !) 
A  feeling  such  as  influenced  our  sires, 

When  they  the  British  yoke  (plague  take  that 

cracker !) 
Threw  off,  and  gained  thee  — theme  for  all  our 

" lyres  ! 

(Pah  !  what  a  puff  of  villanous  tobacco  !) 
Hail  to  the  day  !  —  let  the  grand  cannon  roar, 

(Ha!  that  concussion  my  frail  window  shatters!) 
Let  the  triumphal  bells  their  tocsin  pour, 

(Bless  me  !   my  tender  nerves  are  torn  to  tatters  !) 
Let  our  proud  banner  brush  the  bending  sky  — 
(Let  those  endure  who  can,  but  I  must  fly.) 


LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 


An  admirer  of  Tennyson,  who  has  done  considerable  in  the  tender-line  busi 
ness  with  a  butcher,  received  a  letter,  that  was  couched  in  rather  bilious  lan 
guage,  enclosing  a  bill  from  him  ;  whereupon  the  feeder  sat  down  and  wrote  the 
following  in  reply,  which  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  laureate's  "Spiteful 
Letter  "  will  appreciate  :  — 

ON  A  BUTCHER'S  LETTER.* 

HERE,  it  is  here  —  the  close  of  the  year, 

And  with  it  a  butcher's  letter. 
My  appetite  strong  has  done  him  wrong, 

For  himself  he  should  have  done  better. 

*  ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER. 

Here,  it  is  here  —  the  close  of  the  year, 

And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 
My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much  wrong, 

For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0  foo'ish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard, 
If  men  neglect  your  pages  ? 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine  : 

I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

This  fallen  leaf,  isn't  fame  as  brief? 

My  rhymes  may  have  been  the  stronger. 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot : 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

O  faded  leaf,  isn't  fame  as  brief? 

What  room  is  here  for  a  hacer  ? 
Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener  leaf, 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I,  — isn't  that  your  cry?  — 

And  I  shall  live  to  see  it. 
Well,  if  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  you  know  ; 

And  if  it  be  so  —  so  be  it ! 

O  summer  leaf,  isn't  life  as  brief? 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  evergreen: 

I  hate  the  spites  and  the  follies. 


UNCONSIDERED    TRIFLES.  299 

0  foolish  chap,  you  aren't  up  to  trap, 
When  men  forget  to  pay  you. 

1  think  you're  an  ass,  —  'twixt  you  and  me,  - 

1  hear  the  town  bewray  you. 

This  written  leaf,  is  it  all  for  beef? 

My  stomach  ne'er  was  stronger. 
You  hate  me  not,  but  stopped  my  scot, 

And  wouldn't  trust  me  longer. 

O  written  leaf,  where's  all  the  beef? 

What  room  is  here  for  question  ? 
Yet  the  blotted  leaf  mocks  the  unwritten  leaf, 

And  brags  of  good  digestion. 

Bigger  than  I  —  isn't  that  your  cry  ? 

You'll  make  my  optics  see  it ! 
Well,  go  it  so  —  if  so  you  know, 

And  when  it's  so,  so  be  it. 

O  blotted  leaf,  isn't  life  a  thief? 

But  I  shall  still  be  jolly. 
And  my  heart  and  my  palate  shall  turn  elsewhere  : 

I  cut  you  and  your  folly. 


SUPPOSE  the  spear  of  grass  should  say, 
"  Whafs  the  use  of  my  growing,  hey? 
I'm  of  no  account,  any  way  ; 
I  shall  not  add  to  the  world's  heyday  ; 
So  what's  the  use  of  my  being,  say  ?  " 
O,  what  a  green,  inconsiderate  ass 
We'd  count  this  doubting  spear  of  grass 
For  the  many  like  it  make  up  the  mass, 


300  LINES   IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

And  many  littles  bring  all  to  pass. 
Now  we  can  plainly  the  moral  see 
Apply  to  the  human  family : 
The  least,  however  small  he  may  be, 
To  form  the  whole  is  necessaree. 
This  moral,  we  know,  is  very  old, 
But  then  it  was  never  better  told. 


MY  friend  had  on  a  coat  quite  seedy ; 

He  was  not  poor,  he  was  not  needy, 

And  much  upon  the  thing  I  pondered, 

And  much  and  more  again  I  wondered 

Why  he  wore  that  coat  so  seedy 

When  he  was  not  poor  nor  needy. 

u Friend,"  quoth  I,  "though  there's  no  harm 

in't, 

Why. dost  wear  that  seedy  garment?  " 
Then  my  friend  turned  to  me  quicker, 
And  he  broke  into  a  snicker : 
"  For  this  reason,  and  no  other,  — 
To  cover  up  my  back,  my  brother." 
Then  I  wondered  more  and  more 
I  hadn't  thought  of  this  before. 

WHEN  June's  hot  sun  pours  down  in  fervid  beams 
In  striking  beams,  that  knock  a  mortal  down, 

Or  make  the  perspiration  flow  in  streams, 

In  regal  streams,  descending  from  the  crown,  — 

My  mind  recalls  a  fat  and  jovial  one, 
A  jovial  one  that  I  did  call  my  friend, 

Who  melted  on  a  time,  'neath  such  a  sun, 


UNCONSIDERED    TRIFLES.  301 

'Neath  such  a  sun,  just  like  a  candle  end. 
I  saw  him  for  a  moment  stand  alone  — 

Stand  all  alone  beneath  a  hat  of  straw  ; 
A  moment  more  and  on  the  sidewalk  stone, 

That  reeking  stone,  my  wondering  visuals  saw 
A  heap  of  clothes,  suspenders,  hat,  and  boots, 
An  empty  wicker-flask,  and  twenty  choice  cheroots. 

ALL  the  day,  all  the  day,  • 

There  sits  an  old  man  o'er  the  way ; 

His  locks  are  thin,  and  scant,  and  gray. 

A  plaided  cloak  his  shoulders  bear, 
With  rifts  and  patches  here  and  there, 
A  title  page  of  seedy  care. 

The  pedals  of  the  mortal  old 
In  winter's  air  are  very  cold  ; 
So  a  basket  doth  them  hold. 

An  old  fur  cap  is  on  his  head, 

From  which  the  nap  has  long  time  fled, 

As  'twere  a  conscience-haunted  bed. 

A  pleasant  smile  his  face  reveals, 
That  no  obscuring  cloud  conceals  ; 
He  smiles  like  one  who  happy  feels. 

All  the  day,  all  the  day, 

Sits  the  plaided  old  man  gray, 

Selling  apples  o'er  the  way. 

A  little  handful  all  his  store, 
Never  waning,  never  more  ; 
Like  that  old  fairy  purse  of  yore. 


302          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

What  he  thinks  no  man  may  know  — 
Whether  feels  he  joy  or  woe, 
Reason's  light  or  fancy's  glow. 

Doubtless  memory  sheds  its  ray, 
Like  a  dreamlight  round  his  way, 
But  his  hopes  !  —  O,  what  are  they  ? 

But,  whate'er  his  hope  or  aim, 
What  his  rank,  or  what  his  name, 
He's  our  brother  all  the  same. 

Help  him,  ye  of  good  intent, 
Help  the  old  man  pay  his  rent ; 
Stop  ye,  and  invest  a  cent ! 

And  the  copper  coin  thus  given, 
Aiding  him  who  here  has  striven, 
May  be  counted  gold  in  heaven. 


LITTLE  troubles  are  by  these  defined : 

A  creaking  hinge  upon  a  window  blind  ; 

A  door  slam-banging  in  the  evening  wind  ; 

A  snappish  cur  assailing  you  behind  ; 

A  thing  forgotten  you  can't  call  to  mind  ; 

A  talky  woman  scandally  inclined  ; 

A  skein  of  cotton  given  you  to  wind  ; 

A  favorite  dish  remembered  when  you've  dined  ; 

A  vine  of  ivy  'mid  your  grapes  entwined  ; 

A  note  to  meet,  you  for  a  friend  have  signed  ; 

A  fork  at  dinner  time,  but  singly  tined  ; 

A  horse  you've  purchased,  anything  but  kind  ; 

A  taste  of  lamp-oil  with  your  tea  combined  ; 


UNCONSIDBRED   TRIFLES.  3°3 

A  stupid  sell  for  your  own  self  designed ; 

A  hidden  thought  some  woman  has  divined  ; 

A  person  deaf  and  doggedly  opined  ; 

A  hope  of  cheese  and  only  get  the  rind  ; 

A  hideous  thing  where  beauty  late  was  shrined. 

A  PRINCESS  marries  !  Lord,  the  fuss  they  make  ! 

As  if  'twere  something  that  was  far  from  common, 
That  royal  flesh  and  blood  should  deign  to  make 

A  royal  wife,  just  like  another  woman  ! 
They  hang  around  the  deed  a  tinsel  show, 

As  if  to  hide  its  humanly  appearing  — 
As  if  there  were,  the  gorgeous  veil  below, 

No  heart  of  flesh,  all  hoping,  loving,  fearing. 
Great  Nature !  equal  art  thou  in  thy  works ; 

Thou'st  given  to  all  like  qualities  of  feeling ; 
Perhaps  disguised  in  royal  bosoms  lurks 

A  world  of  passion  deeper  for  concealing. 
The  heart  of  woman  throbs  beneath  the  crown, 
As  'neath  the  hat  of  straw  and  cotton  gown. 


I  WROTE  within  an  album  once  sweet  things 

Of  one  I  loved  —  how  madly  !     I  was  young, 
And  Cupid  buzzed  about  with  busy  wings, 

And  tempted  me  perplexing  ways  among. 
I  bowed  at  that  one  shrine  —  my  heart  laid  down, 

And  an  eternal  faithfulness  I  swore  ; 
She  was  my  monarch  —  love  gave  her  a  crown  — 

And  I,  her  subject,  went  in  to  adore. 


304          LINES  IN  PLEASANT  PLACES. 

I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  soon  a  cloud 
Came  o'er  my  spirit  as  I  older  grew ; 

The  crown  was  changed,  and  squandered  in  a  crowd 
Was  all  the  love  that  young  affection  knew. 

I  dodged  the  trap  that  early  romance  laid, 

But  didn't  make  much  by  it,  I'm  afraid. 


OF  all  the  features  humanly  appearing, 

That  divers  ways  the  character  bespeak, 
Not  one  I  know  in  any  way  is  Hearing 

The  quality  of  good,  substantial  cheek. 

Men  may  have  claims  to  place  ;  but  vain  they  seek 
Advancement  with  this  rival  in  the  way : 

Back  to  retiracy  they  baffled  sneak, 
While  cheek  triumphantly  achieves  the  day. 
How  oft  we  see  it  in  victorious  sway, 

In  church  or  state,  society  or  mart ! 
Whatever  intellect  or  worth  may  say, 

Cheek  sweeps  the  board ;  the  others  set  apart. 
"  Win  "  is  the  word  the  winds  in  waiting  shriek, 
When  wealth  and  brains  in  vain  compete  with  cheek. 


HOGARTH  affirmed  the  line  of  beauty  lay 

In  curves,  and  may  be  he  was  in  the  right ; 
But  I  affirm,  myself,  despite  his  say, 

That  other  lines  give  full  as  much  delight. 
His  zigzag  crook  attracts  a  crooked  mind  ; 

But  what  so  gracefully  the  eye  may  fill 
As  that  great  evidence  of  taste  refined, 

The  straight-lined  shaft  that  graces  Bunker  Hill? 


UNCONSIDERED   TRIFLES.  305 

The  line  of  beauty  is  that,  after  all, 

Which  we,  as  independent  freemen,  choose ; 

He  who  sees  beauty  in  a  flat  brick  wall 

Of  course  old  Hogarth's  dogma  wTill  refuse. 

Show  me  a  beauty  rarer,  more  divine, 

Than  that  of  a  good,  paying  railroad  line. 


THERE  is  a  picture,  pinned  against  my  wall, 

Of  one,  a  printer,  managing  his  u  case  :  " 
He  deftly  wields  a  "  stick,"  I  think  they  call 

The  implement  that  holds  the  types  in  place. 
A  patient  face,  with  eyes  intently  bent 

Upon  the  "  copy  "  plainly  held  in  view  ; 
His  lips  compressed  as  though  his  soul  were  lent 

To  pierce  the  ink-traced  mystery  through  and 

through. 
Ah,  grand  old  type  !  my  spirit  bows  to  thee, 

Although  the  world  thy  merit  cannot  own  ; 
I  in  thy  toil  a  benefaction  see, 

That  tends  to  human  good,  and  that  alone  : 
But,  like  the  quadruped  that  once  did  bear 
Unknowingly  the  world's  salvation,  he  don't  care. 


PARTINGTONIAN  PATCHWORK. 

By  B.   P.    SHILLABER. 


r  I  ^HIS  work,  whose  march  to  fame  and  pe- 
"*•  cuniary  success  was  interrupted  'by  the 
fiery  visitation  of  1872,  still  presents  its  claim  to 
humorous  readers,  and  will  be  furnished  to  such 
as  desire  it  who  may  send  their  orders  to  the 
author,  at  Chelsea,  or  to  Messrs.  Lee  &  Shepard, 
the  Boston  publishers.  The  fiery  ordeal  has  but 
refined  its  humor,  and,  resurrected  from  its  ashes, 
it  lives  with  its  mirth  unimpaired,  and  its  power 
of  pleasing  undiminished. 

PRICE,  $1.75. 


YB  13593 


9. 
S! 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


